been both his own and his father's friend. Often as a lad he had
hunted, fished, and trapped with the preacher-overseer, who lived
near his father's plantation. He had broken all of the stubborn colts
in the overseer's care; he had ridden them even in some of their
fiercest, hardest races, and he had felt the thrill of victory at the
wire and known the great pride which comes to one who knows he has
the confidence of a brave and honest man.

The old trainer's influence over Edward Conway had always been great.

To-day, as he saw the Bishop ride up, he thought of his boyhood days,
and of Tom Travis. How often had they gone with the old man hunting
and fishing! How he reverenced the memory of his gentleness and
kindness!

The greatest desire of Hillard Watts had been to reform Edward
Conway. He had prayed for him, worked for him. In spite of his
drunkenness the old man believed in him.

"God'll save him yet," he would say. "I've prayed for it an' I kno'
it--tho' it may be by the crushing of him. Some men repent to God's
smile, some to His frown, and some to His fist. I'm afraid it will
take a blow to save Ned, po' boy."

For Ned was always a boy to him.

Conway was drunker than usual to-day. Things grew worse daily, and he
drank deeper.

It is one of the strangest curses of whiskey that as it daily drags a
man down, deeper and deeper, it makes him believe he must cling to
his Red God the closer.

He met the old overseer cordially, in a half drunken endeavor to be
natural. The old man glanced sadly up at the bloated, boastful face,
and thought of the beautiful one it once had been. He thought of the
fine, brilliant mind and marveled that with ten years of drunkenness
it still retained its strength. And the Bishop remembered that in
spite of his drinking no one had ever accused Edward Conway of doing
a dishonorable thing. "How strong is that man's character rooted for
good," he thought, "when even whiskey cannot undermine it."

"Where are the babies, Ned?" he asked, after he was seated.

The father called and the two girls came running out.

The old man was struck with the developing beauty of Helen--he had
not seen her for a year. Lily hunted in his pockets for candy, as she
had always done--and found it--and Helen--though eighteen and grown,
sat thoughtful and sad, on a stool by his side.

The old man did not wonder at her sadness.

"Ned," he said, as he stroked Helen's hand, "this girl looks mo' like
her