and added another line:

"P.S. Better buy a cook-book."

He folded the pages, inserted them in the envelope, sealed the envelope
and addressed it to Miss Helena Smith--street and number not far from
the tenderloin district of New York.

Then Madison yawned pleasantly, tucked the letter in his pocket--and
prepared for bed.

--VI--

OFFICIALLY ENDORSED

Ten days had passed, bringing with them many changes. The snow was gone,
and the warm, balmy airs of springtime had brought the buds upon the
trees almost to leaf. It seemed indeed a new land, and one now full of
charm and delight--the desolate, straggling hamlet, once so barren,
frozen and hopeless looking, was now a quaint, alluring little village
nestling picturesquely in its hollow, framed in green fields and
majestic woods. Quiet, restful, peaceful it was--like a dream place,
untroubled. Upon the farms about men plowed their furrows, calling to
each other and to their horses; in the homes the doors and windows were
thrown hospitably wide to the sweet, fresh, vernal airs, and the thrifty
housewives were busy at their cleaning.

And there had been other changes, too. The ten days had found Madison
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 sleev