The Patriarch held the slate within a bare inch or two of his face, and moved it back and forth before his eyes to follow the lines.  As he lowered it, Madison reached for it politely.

“I am afraid you do not see very well,” he scribbled.  “Shall I write larger?”

Again the Patriarch deciphered the words laboriously; then he wrote, and handed the slate to Madison.

“I am going blind,” he had written.  “Please write as large as possible.”

“Blind!”—­Madison’s attitude and expression were eloquent enough not only to be a perfect interpretation of his exclamation, but to convey his shocked and pained surprise as well.

The Patriarch bowed his head affirmatively, smiling a little wistfully.

Madison impetuously drew his chair closer to the other, laid his hand sympathetically upon the Patriarch’s sleeve, and, with the slate upon his knee, wrote with the other hand impulsively: 

“I am sorry—­very, very sorry.  Would you care to tell me about it?”

The Patriarch’s face lighted up while reading the slate, but he shook his head slowly as he smiled again.

“By and by, if you wish,” he wrote.  “But first about yourself.  You are sick—­and you have come to me for help?”

The slate now passed from hand to hand quite rapidly.

“Yes,” wrote Madison.  “Can you cure me?”

“No,” replied the Patriarch; “not in your present mental condition.”

“What do you mean?” asked Madison.

“Your question itself implies that you are skeptical.  While that state of mind exists, I can do nothing—­it depends entirely on yourself.”

“And if I put skepticism aside?” Madison’s pencil demanded.  “Can you cure me then?”

“Unquestionably,” wrote the Patriarch, “if you really put it aside.  Faith is the simplest thing in the world and the most complex—­but it is fundamental.  Without faith nothing is possible; with faith nothing is impossible.”

Madison’s gray eyes rested, magnificently thoughtful and troubled, upon the Patriarch.

“I have never thought much about it,” he replied upon the slate, after a tactful moment’s pause.  “But I believe that.  There is something here, about the place, about you that inspires confidence—­I was prepared to cling to my skepticism when I came in, but I do not feel that way now.  If only I knew you a little better, were with you a little more, I believe I could have the faith you speak of.”

“How long do you remain in Needley?” the Patriarch wrote.

Madison got up from his chair, went slowly to the fireplace, and, with his back to the Patriarch, stood watching the crackling logs.

“The old chap’s no fool,” he informed himself, “even if he is gone a little in one particular.  He certainly does believe in himself for fair!  Wonder where he got his education—­notice the English he writes?  And, say—­going blind!  Fancy that!  Santa Claus, you overwhelm me, you are too bountiful, you are too generous—­you’ll have nothing left for the next chimney!  Deaf and dumb—­and blind.  Really, I do not deserve this—­I really don’t—­let me at least tip the hat-boy, or I’ll feel mean.”