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