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."

Madison took the slate.

"But if these thousands of others came to you--what then?"

The Patriarch's face glowed.

"It would be a wondrous joy," he wrote. "Too wondrous to dwell
upon--because it could never be. If they came I could help them, for