He turned gravely to the Patriarch; resuming his chair with an expression on his face as one arrived at a weighty decision after a mental battle with one’s self.

“I will stay here until I am cured.  I put myself in your hands.  What am I to do?” he wrote quickly—­and held out his hand almost anxiously for the other’s assent.

The Patriarch smiled seriously as, after peering at the slate, he took the outstretched hand and laid his other one unaffectedly upon Madison’s shoulder.

“Be sure then that I can help you,” wrote the Patriarch cheerfully.  “There is no course of treatment such as you may, perhaps, imagine.  My power lies in a perfect faith to help you once you, in turn, have faith yourself—­that is all.  It is but the practical application of the old dogma that mind is superior to matter.  You must come and see me every day, and we will talk together.”

“I will come—­gladly,” Madison replied; and, taking the slate, carefully wiped off the writing—­as he had previously wiped it off every time it came into his hands—­with a damp rag that the Patriarch had taken from the table drawer when he had produced the slate and pencil.

“This slate racket is the limit,” said Madison to himself, as his pencil began to move and screech again; “but I’ve got to get a little deeper under his vest yet.”

He handed the slate to the Patriarch, and on it were the words: 

“Won’t you tell me something of yourself, how you came to live here alone, and your name, perhaps?  I do not mean to presume, but I am deeply interested.”

“There is never presumption in kindliness and sympathy,” answered the Patriarch.  “But my name and story is buried in the past—­perhaps when I am gone those who care to know may know.  I have not hurt you by refusing to answer?”

“No, indeed!” said Madison politely to himself.  “The element of mystery is one of the best drawing cards I know—­it’s got Needley going strong.  Far, far be it from me to tear the veil asunder.  I mentioned it only as a feeler.”

But upon the slate he wrote: 

“Far from being hurt, I respect your silence.  But your eyes—­you were to tell me about them.”

The Patriarch’s face saddened suddenly as he read the words.

“I have made no secret of it,” he wrote.  “I have been going blind for nearly a year now.  The end, I am afraid, is very near—­within a few days, perhaps even to-morrow.  I think I should not mind it much myself, for I am very old and have not a great while longer to live in any case, but for the time that is left it will mar my usefulness.  I have been able to help the people here and they have come to depend upon me—­that is my life.  I trust I am not boastful if I say my greatest joy has been in helping others.”

He had come to the bottom of the slate and held it out for Madison to read; then wiped it off, and went on: 

“I have dreamed often of a wider field, of reaching out to help the thousands beyond this little town—­but I have realized that it could be no more than a dream.  I have been successful here because the people believe in me and have unquestioning faith in me—­to go outside amongst strangers would only have been to be received as a charlatan and faker, or as a poor deaf and dumb fool at best.”