mother every day, an' you know she was the handsomest woman that
ever was raised in the Valley."

Conway took his pipe out of his mouth. He dropped his head and looked
toward the distant blue hills. What Memory and Remorse were
whispering to him the old man could only guess. Silently--nodding--he
sat and looked and spoke not.

"She ain't gwineter be a bit prettier than my little Lil, when she
gits grown," said a voice behind them.

It was Mammy Maria who, as usual, having dressed the little girl as
daintily as she could, stood nearby to see that no harm befell her.

"Wal, Aunt Maria," drawled the Bishop. "Whar did you come from? I
declar' it looks like ole times to see you agin'."

There is something peculiar in this, that those unlettered, having
once associated closely with negroes, drop into their dialect when
speaking to them. Perhaps it may be explained by some law of
language--some rule of euphony, now unknown. The Bishop unconsciously
did this; and, from dialect alone, one could not tell which was white
and which was black.

Aunt Maria had always been very religious, and the Bishop arose and
shook her hand gravely.

"Pow'ful glad to see you," said the old woman.

"How's religion--Aunt Maria," he asked.

"Mighty po'ly--mighty po'ly"--she sighed. "It looks lak the Cedars of
Lebanon is dwarfed to the scrub pine. The old time religin' is
passin' away, an' I'm all that's lef' of Zion."

The Bishop smiled.

"Yes, you see befo' you all that's lef' of Zion. I'se been longin' to
see you an' have a talk with you--thinkin' maybe you cud he'p me out.
You kno' me and you is Hard-shells."

The Bishop nodded.

"We 'blieves in repentince an' fallin' from grace, an' backslidin'
an' all that," she went on. "Well, they've lopped them good ole
things off one by one an' they don't 'bleeve in nothin' now but jes'
jin'in'. They think jes' jin'in' fixes 'em--that it gives 'em a free
pass into the pearly gates. So of all ole Zion Church up at the
hill, sah, they've jes' jined an' jined around, fust one church an'
then another, till of all the ole Zion Church that me an' you loved
so much, they ain't none lef' but Parson Shadrack, the preacher,
sister Tilly, an' me--We wus Zion."

"Pow'ful bad, pow'ful bad," said the Bishop--"and you three made
Zion."

"We _wus_," said Aunt Maria, sadly--"but now there ain't but one
lef'. _I'm Zion._ It's t'arrable, but it's true. As it wus in the
days of Lot, so it is to-day in Sodo