The Bishop stopped and looked serious.

"Davy, ain't you a trifle previous in this?" he asked.

"Not for a will," he said. "You see this is supposed to happen and be read after you're dead. You see Charles has been to see her twice and writ a poem on her eyes."

The Bishop frowned: "You'll have to watch that Biggers boy--he is a wild reckless rake an' not in Tilly's cla.s.s in anything."

"He's pow'ful sweet on Tilly," said Aunt Sallie.

"Has he asked her to marry him?" asked the Bishop astonished.

"S-h-h--not yet," said Uncle Davy, "but he's comin' to it as fast as a lean hound to a meat block. He's got the firs' tech now--silly an'

poetic. After a while he'll get silly an' desperate, an' jes' 'fo' he kills hisse'l Tilly'll fix him all right an' tie him up for life. The good Lord makes every man crazy when he is ripe for matrimony, so he can mate him off befo' he comes to."

The Bishop shook his head: "I am glad I came out here to-day--if for nothin' else to warn you to let that Biggers boy alone. He don't study nothin' but fast horses an' devilment."

"I never seed a man have a wuss'r case," said Aunt Sally. "Won't Tilly be proud of herse'f as the daughter of Old Judge Biggers? An'

me--jes' think of me as the grandmother of Biggerses--the riches' an'

fines' family in the land."

"An' me?--I'll be the gran'pap of 'em--won't I, Sally?"

"You forgit, Davy," said Aunt Sally--"this is yo' will--you'll be dead."

"I did forgit," said Uncle Davy sadly--"but I'd sho' love to live an'

take one of them little Biggerses on my knees an' think his gran'pap had bred up to this. Me an' old Judge Biggers--gran'paws of the same kids! Now, you see, Hillard, he met Tilly at a party an' he tuck her in to supper. The next day he writ her a poem, an' I think it's a pretty good start on the gran'pap business."

The Bishop smiled: "It does look like he loves her," he added, dryly.

"If I was the devil an' wanted to ketch a woman I'd write a poem to her every day an' lie between heats. Love lives on lies."

"Now, I've ca'culated them things out," said Uncle Davy, "an' it'll be this away: Tilly is as pretty as a peach an' Charlie is gittin'

stuck wus'n wus'n every day. By the time I am dead they will be married good an' hard. I am almost gone as it is, the ole man he's liable to drap off any time--yea, Lord, thy servant is ready to go--but I do hope that the good master will let me live long enough to hold one of my Biggers grandboys on my knees."

"All I've got to say," said the Bishop, "is jus' to watch yo'

son-in-law. Every son-in-law will stan' watchin' after the ceremony, but yours will stan' it all the time."

"_'Lastly,'_" read the Bishop, "_'I wills it that things be left just as they be on the place--no moving around of nothing, especially the well, it being eighty foot deep, and with good cool water; and finally I leave anything else I've got, mostly my good will, to the tender mercies of the lawyers and courts.'_"

The Bishop witnessed it, gave Uncle Davy another toddy, and, after again cautioning him to watch young Biggers closely, rode away.

CHAPTER XV

EDWARD CONWAY

Across the hill the old man rode to Millwood, and as he rode his head was bent forward in troubled thought.

He had heard that Edward Conway had come to the sorest need--even to where he would place his daughters in the mill. None knew better than Hillard Watts what this would mean socially for the granddaughters of Governor Conway.

Besides, the old preacher had begun to hate the mill and its infamous system of child labor with a hatred born of righteousness. Every month he saw its degradation, its slavery, its death.

He preached, he talked against it. He began to be pointed out as the man who was against the mill. Ominous rumors had come to his ears, and threats. It was whispered to him that he had better be silent, and some of the people he preached to--some of those who had children in the mill and were supported in their laziness by the life blood of their little ones--these were his bitterest enemies.

To-day, the drunken proprietor of Millwood sat in his accustomed place on the front balcony, his cob-pipe in his mouth and ruin all around him.

Like others, he had a great respect for the Bishop--a man who had 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.

"G.o.d'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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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.

"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 a.s.sociated 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.