The Patriarch bowed his head affirmatively, smiling a little wistfully.
Madison impetuously drew his chair closer to the other, laid his hand sympathetically upon the Patriarch's sleeve, and, with the slate upon his knee, wrote with the other hand impulsively:
"I am sorry—very, very sorry. Would you care to tell me about it?"
The Patriarch's face lighted up while reading the slate, but he shook his head slowly as he smiled again.
"By and by, if you wish," he wrote. "But first about yourself. You are sick—and you have come to me for help?"
The slate now passed from hand to hand quite rapidly.
"Yes," wrote Madison. "Can you cure me?"
"No," replied the Patriarch; "not in your present mental condition."
"What do you mean?" asked Madison.
"Your question itself implies that you are skeptical. While that state of mind exists, I can do nothing—it depends entirely on yourself."