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 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.