"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."
"And if I put skepticism aside?" Madison's pencil demanded. "Can you cure me then?"
"Unquestionably," wrote the Patriarch, "if you really put it aside. Faith is the simplest thing in the world and the most complex—but it is fundamental. Without faith nothing is possible; with faith nothing is impossible."
Madison's gray eyes rested, magnificently thoughtful and troubled, upon the Patriarch.
"I have never thought much about it," he replied upon the slate, after a tactful moment's pause. "But I believe that. There is something here, about the place, about you that inspires confidence—I was prepared to cling to my skepticism when I came in, but I do not feel that way now. If only I knew you a little better, were with you a little more, I believe I could have the faith you speak of."
"How long do you remain in Needley?" the Patriarch wrote.
Madison got up from his chair, went slowly to the fireplace, and, with his back to the Patriarch, stood watching the crackling logs.
"The old chap's no fool," he informed himself,
