still; but in the front, in the Patriarch’s own writing, is an essay he wrote in the years gone by on ’The Power of Faith’—­what could be more fitting than that the remaining pages should be filled with a record of the contributions to that faith?” He laid the book on the table beside the little chest, and sat down again.  “There is no display, no ornamentation, no attempt at anything of that kind—­it is simplicity, those things serving which are first at hand—­as it seems to me it should be—­those who give record their names and gifts in this book—­the little chest to hold the gifts is open, free to the inspection of all.”

“But is that wise?” demurred Thornton.  “So large a sum of money as must accumulate to be left openly about?  Would it not be a temptation to some to steal?  Might it not even endanger Miss Vail and the Patriarch himself—­subject them, indeed, to attack?”

“I get your idea,” said Madison to himself—­while he gazed at Thornton in pained surprise; “but there’ll never be more than the day’s catch in the box at a time, though of course you don’t know that.  You see, we’ll empty it every night, and start it off fresh every morning, with a trinket or two put back for bait.  I’m glad you mentioned it though, it’s a little detail I mustn’t forget to speak to the Flopper about.”  But aloud he said, and there was a sort of shocked awe in his voice:  “Steal—­here!  In this sacred place!  No man would dare—­the most hardened criminal would draw back.  Why do even we who sit here speak as we have been speaking with hushed and lowered voices?—­that very sense of a presence unseen around us, that hovers over us, is a mightier safeguard than the strongest bolts and locks, than the steel-barred vaults of any bank.  It would seem indeed to profane our own faith even to entertain such an idea—­to me this place is a solemn shrine, and there is only purity and faith and stillness here, the dwelling place of a power as compassionate as it is mighty.”

Madison stopped abruptly—­and a silence fell.  Each seemed busy with their own thoughts.  About them was quiet, stillness, peace—­twilight was falling, and a soft, mellow light was in the room.

“No one would dare”—­the words came from Mrs. Thornton in almost breathless corroboration, almost of their own accord it seemed, as though heavy upon her lay the solemnity of her surroundings.

Madison’s hand went to his pocket—­slowly he drew out his check-book and laid it upon the table.

“I am not a rich man”—­his voice was very low, very earnest—­“but I feel that this is something deeper, grander, bigger than anything the world perhaps has ever known before; something higher and above one’s own self; it seems as though here were the chrysalis that, once developed to its perfect state, would sweep pain and sorrow from suffering humanity; it is as though a new, glad era had dawned for all mankind.  I am glad to give and humbly proud to have a part in this.”  He took out his fountain pen, opened the check-book, and began to write.