, negotiated the back entrance. On the way upstairs he
stumbled--quite inadvertently--and stopped to listen.

"There he be now," announced Hiram Higgins' voice excitedly. "Goin' up
to his room to meditate. Knew he'd come back feelin' like that. I be
goin' out there to-morrow to see the Patriarch myself."

Madison smiled, mounted the remaining stairs, entered his room, and
lighted his lamp.

"Having got my hand in at writing," he remarked, "I guess I'd better
keep it up and write Helena--Vail."

He extracted a pad of writing paper and an envelope from the tray of his
trunk, his fountain pen from his pocket, and, drawing his chair to the
table and laying down his cigar reluctantly at his elbow, began to
write. At the end of fifteen minutes, he tilted back his chair,
relighted the stub of his cigar, and critically read over his epistle.

"Dear Kid," it ran. "Do not be anxious about me--I am feeling better
already. Have had my first treatment, and am now eating fried eggs and
ham regularly three times a day. A Sunday-school picnic taking to
washboilers full of thin coffee and the left-over cakes kindly
contributed by Deacon Jones' household, is nothing to the way the boobs
will take to the Patriarch--who has kindly consented to go blind to make
our thorny paths as smooth as possible for us.

"Do you get that, Helena--he's going blind! In just a few days, my dear,
you will be with me, have patience. The meteorological bureau is a
little hazy yet on the exact date of the total eclipse, but it's due to
happen any minute. Now listen. Your name is Helena Vail. You're the
Patriarch's grand-niece, and you're coming to live alone with him and
soothe his declining years; but you can't come yet because I've got to
find you first, and besides, until he's blind, he'll stick to a nasty
habit he's got of asking questions on his little slate. You needn't have
any hesitation about coming on the score of propriety, I assure you it
is perfectly proper--he is running Methuselah pretty near a dead heat.
And, as far as the town is concerned, apart from the fact that you are a
grand-niece, orphaned, you don't have to know anything about yourself,
either--that's part of the Patriarch's dark, mysterious past, where the
lights go out and the fiddles get rickets.

"That's about all. I'll let you know when to come. Remember me to Mr.
Coogan and Harry, and keep my picture under your pillow. Ever thine,
J.G.M."

Madison picked up his pen again