Madison, promptly and full of interest, rose from his chair, passed around the fireplace, and halted before a row of shelves set in against the wall. "I pass," Madison admitted to himself after a moment, during which his eyes roved over the well chosen classics. "I've heard of one or two of these before--casually. I've an idea that if the Patriarch's got all this inside his gray matter, it's just as well for the Flopper, for Pale Face Harry, for Helena and yours truly that he's deaf and dumb--and will be blind." Madison came back to the Patriarch with beaming face, and picked up the slate. "I read a great deal myself," he wrote. "It is a pleasure to find _real_ books here. May I, during my stay in Needley, look upon them in a little way as my own library?" "You are very welcome indeed," the Patriarch answered. "Thank you," wrote Madison. "And now, surely, I must go"--he smiled at the Patriarch. "Come to-morrow," invited the Patriarch. "I would like to show you all around my little place here." "Indeed, I will," Madison scratched upon the slate, "and do you know that somehow, since I came here to-night, I feel a sense of relief, a sort of guarantee that everything is going to be all right with me in the future." The Patriarch smiled quietly, almost tolerantly. "I know that," he wrote. "Keep your mind free of doubt, be optimistic and cheerful as regards yourself, nourish the faith that has already taken root and that I feel responds to mine; keep in the open air and take plenty of exercise." Slowly, with an apparently abstracted air, Madison read the slate, wiped it carefully, laid it down, and then held out his hand. "Good-night!" he nodded warmly. The Patriarch, still with the quiet smile upon his lips, rose from his armchair, and, keeping his clasp on Madison's hand, led Madison to the door, opened it, and with a gesture at once courtly and affectionate bade his guest good-night. Madison crossed the lawn at a thoughtful pace, turned into the wagon track, and, in the shelter of the woods now, whimsically felt his pulse; then, lighting a cigar, tramped on with a buoyant stride. "There's only one answer, of course," he mused. "The Patriarch's got a brain kink on faith--it's the natural outcome of living alone for sixty years. Outside of that and his books, he's as simple and innocent and trusting as a babe. I suppose the thing's kind of grown on him--Hiram said it had taken forty years--which isn't sudden unless you say it quick. Hanged if I don't like the old sport though, and if Helena isn't the best ever to him I'll stop her chewing gum allowance." Madison looked up through the arched, leafless branches overhead. "Beautiful night, isn't it?" said he pleasantly. A little later he reached the main road and paused a moment on the bridge, as though to sum up the thoughts and imaginings that had occupied him on the way along.