"New York," the Patriarch answered.

"And I never half appreciated the old town nor the fulness thereof until
I came to Needley!" said Madison plaintively to the toe of his boot,
while his hand scrawled the inquiry: "What is her name?"

"Vail," wrote the Patriarch. "That was her father's name. She is my
grand-niece on her mother's side. I do not know what they christened
her."

Madison once more, apparently deep in thought, sought refuge at the
fireplace, his hands plunged in his pockets, his shoulders drawn a
little forward, his back to the Patriarch.

"Fiction," he assured a crack in the cement between two stones, "was
never, never like this. It seems to me that I remember the occurrence.
It had grown a little dim with the lapse of time, it is true; but now
that I recall it, it comes back with remarkable clearness. I am quite
sure they christened her--Helena. Helena Vail! Now isn't that a
perfectly lovely name for a novel! And she'll be so good to the dear old
chap too--washing and ironing and cooking for him--and stealing out into
the woodshed for a drag on her cigarette--_not_. No, my dear, not even
that--this is serious business."

He turned, came back to his chair, picked up the slate, and wrote:

"I have the fortune, or misfortune perhaps, to be what is commonly
called a rich man. Money, they say, will do anything, and if it will
I'll find this niece for you."