more and more a constant visitor, and finally a most intimate one, at
the Patriarch's cottage--while to the circle in the hotel office his
voice no longer rose in even feeble protest, he was one of them. And,
perhaps most vital change of all, the Patriarch was nearly blind--so
nearly blind that conversation now was limited to but little more than
a single word at a time upon the slate.

It was morning, in the Patriarch's sitting-room, and Madison was seated
in his usual place beside the table facing the other. For upwards of an
hour, it had taken him that long, he had been engaged, having decided
that the time was ripe, in telling the Patriarch that his grand-niece
had been found and that now it was only necessary to write and ask her
to come to Needley.

The Patriarch's fine old face was aglow with pleasure as he finally
understood. Letter writing was beyond him now, a thing of the past, so
upon the slate he scrawled:

"You write."

Madison shook his head; and again with gentle patience explained that
perhaps it would be better if the letter came from some one holding an
official position in the village, rather than from one who, even in an
abstract way, would be unknown to her--the postmaster, for instance.

And the Patriarch, patting Madison's sleeve gratefully, agreed.

Out in the garden behind the cottage, where for the first time in sixty
seasons the work must be done by other hands, Hiram Higgins, the
volunteer for the moment, was busy at his "spell."