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."

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."