In three weeks from the night of Mrs. Thornton's death, which had had at least no visible effect on Needley, Needley was metamorphosed—with a spontaneity, so to speak, that astounded even Madison himself—into something that approximated very closely in reality the word-picture he had drawn of it that night in the Roost. Madison looked upon his work and saw that it was pleasing beyond his dreams. Money was pouring in—no single breath of suspicion came to disquiet him. Even the cures were working satisfactorily—even Pale Face Harry, who had become great friends with the farmer at whose house he boarded, and who now spent most of his time in the fields, was showing an improvement—Pale Face Harry coughed less. The Flopper was as happy as a lark—and Mamie Rodgers blushed now at mention of the name of Coogan. Helena, demure, adored by all who saw her, went daily about her housework in the cottage, and waited upon the Patriarch with gentle tenderness; while the Patriarch, docile, full of supreme trust and confidence in every one, radiant in Helena's companionship, was as putty in their hands. And so Madison looked upon his work and saw no flaw—but with the days he grew ill at ease.
"It's too easy," he told himself. "I guess that's it—it's too easy. The whole show runs itself. Why, there's nothing to do but count the cash!"
And yet in his heart he knew that wasn't it—it was Helena. Helena was beginning to trouble
