And so for a little while Madison stood and stared--what had brought the Patriarch there--the Patriarch who could neither see nor hear nor speak--what had brought him from his own room across the hall! And Madison stared, and his hands crept to his temples and pressed upon them--weak he seemed as from some paroxysm of madness that had passed over him. The sunlight streaming through the window sheened the luxuriant mass of hair that falling over shoulders and to the waist seemed alone to cloak the little figure in its crouched position--the little figure that shook so convulsively with sobs--the little figure that clung so desperately at the feet of this god-like, regal man, whose beard was silver, whose hair was hoary white, upon whose face, marring none its strength or self-possession, was a troubled, anxious, questioning look. Strange! Strange! Madison's hands fell to his sides. The Patriarch's eyes were turned full upon him, wavering not so much as by the fraction of an inch--full upon him. And then, as into some holy sanctuary, fending her from harm and danger, the Patriarch turned a little to interpose himself before Madison, and, raising Helena, held her in his arms, her head against his bosom--and one hand lay upon her head and stroked it tenderly. But upon Madison was still turned those sightless eyes, that noble face, serene, commanding even in its perturbation, even in its alert and searching look. Madison stirred now--stirred uneasily--while the silence held. There was a solemnity in the silence that seemed to creep upon and pervade the room--a sense of a vast something that was the antithesis of turmoil, passion, strife, that seemed to radiate from the saintly figure whose lips were mute, whose ears heard no sound, whose eyes saw no sight. And upon Madison it fell potent, masterful, and passion fled, and in its place came a strange, groping response within him, a revulsion, a penitence--and he bowed his head. And then Helena spoke--but her head was turned away from him, hidden on the Patriarch's breast. "Once," she said, and her words were like broken whispers, for she was sobbing still, "once, long, long ago, when I was a little girl, I read the story of Mary Magdalen. I had almost forgotten it, it was so long ago, but it has come back to me, and--and it is a glad story--at the end." She stopped--and Madison raised his head, and his face was strained as with some sudden wonder as he looked at her. "It is a glad story," she said presently. "It--it is my story." "You mean"--Madison's voice was hoarse--"you mean that you've turned--_straight_!"