The Patriarch held the slate within a bare inch or two of his face, and moved it back and forth before his eyes to follow the lines. As he lowered it, Madison reached for it politely.
"I am afraid you do not see very well," he scribbled. "Shall I write larger?"
Again the Patriarch deciphered the words laboriously; then he wrote, and handed the slate to Madison.
"I am going blind," he had written. "Please write as large as possible."
"Blind!"—Madison's attitude and expression were eloquent enough not only to be a perfect interpretation of his exclamation, but to convey his shocked and pained surprise as well.
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.
