em--this is the real soldier.

Thousands of Southern soldiers did this, but Edward Conway had not
been one of them. For where whiskey sits he holds a scepter whose
staff is the body of the Upas tree, and there is no room for the oak
of thrift or the wild-flower of sweetness underneath.

From poverty to worse poverty Edward Conway had gone, until now,
hopelessly mortgaged, hopelessly besotted, hopelessly soured, he
lived the diseased product of weakness, developed through stimulated
inactivity.

Nature is inexorable, morally, physically, mentally, and as two
generations of atheists will beget a thief, so will two generations
of idle rich beget nonentities.

On this particular morning that Jud Carpenter came, things had
reached a crisis with Edward Conway. By a decree of the court, the
last hope he had of retaining a portion of his family estate had been
swept away, and the entire estate was to be advertised for sale, to
satisfy a mortgage and judgment. It is true, he had the two years of
redemption under the Alabama law, but can a drunkard redeem his land
when he can not redeem himself?

And so, partly from despair, and partly from that instinct which
makes even the most sensitive of mortals wish to pour their secret
troubles into another's ear, partly even from drunken recklessness,
Edward Conway sat on his verandah this morning and poured his
troubles into the designing ear of Jud Carpenter. The refrain of his
woe was that luck--luck--remorseless luck was against him.

Luck, since the beginning of the world, has been the cry of him who
gambles with destiny. Work is the watchword of the man who believes
in himself.

This thing went because that man had been against him, and this went
because of the faithlessness of another. His health--well, that was
God's doing.

Jud was too shrewd to let him know that he thought whiskey had
anything to do with it--and so, very cautiously did the employment
agent proceed.

A child with sunny hair and bright eyes ran across the yard. She was
followed by an old black mammy, whose anxiety for fear her charge
might get her clothes soiled was plainly evident; from the parlor
came the notes of an old piano, sadly out of tune, and Jud could hear
the fine voice of another daughter singing a love ballad.

"You've got two mighty pyeart gyrls here," at last he ventured.

"Of course, they are, suh," snapped their father--"they are
Conways."

"Ever think of it, sah," went on Jud, "