"Where be her address?" Mr. Higgins inquired of Madison.

Madison stepped to the bookshelves out of view of the Patriarch around
the fireplace, but in full view of Mr. Higgins, and, reaching down the
Bible from the topmost shelf, extracted from inside its cover the aged,
yellow slip of paper that he had deposited there when he had entered the
cottage that morning, and on which was inscribed Helena's name and
address in a stiff, old-fashioned, angular hand resembling the
Patriarch's--an effect that Madison had stayed up half the night to
produce.

"I guess this must be it," he said. "He said it was here--we'll make
sure though"--and he handed it to the Patriarch.

Long and painfully the Patriarch studied it, anxiously deciphering the
words that he had never seen before, anxious to know all and whatever
this might tell him about his niece--then again he nodded his head and
expressed his gratitude by, patting Madison's sleeve.

Madison's smile modestly disavowed any thanks, as he passed the slip to
Mr. Higgins.

"Reckon that be it," Mr. Higgins agreed. "An' now, I guess I'll go right
back to town an' write it--I allow that the sooner we get her down here
the better. Folks'll be glad to hear this--the women folks was figurin'
on takin' spells an' helpin' out in the house same as the men in the
garden--'pears now there won't be no need of it."

Madison accompanied Mr. Higgins outside and helped him to harness up.