y, do you think, Jack? You're
lucky in having a doctor in the house, Helen, if he does come back."

"He's not crazy," said Jack; "at least I think not. I have been
watching him. But he is no doubt shattered; he may have some
monomania, and I'm afraid he takes opium."

"I should urge him to spend the winter," said George serenely, "and
what's the difference between having a monomania and being crazy?
Couldn't he take a new fancy, and do some mischief or other some day?"
But Jack only laughed, and went to a book-case; while I thought he had
been very inconsiderate, and yet I wished Mr. Whiston to come again. I
hoped he would tell us what it was he saw.

"Here's Bucknill and Tuke," said my brother, coming close to the
drop-light, and turning over the pages; "and now you'll always know
what I mean when I say 'monomania.' 'Characterized by some particular
illusion impressed on the understanding, and giving rise to a partial
aberration of judgment: the individual affected is rendered incapable
of thinking correctly on subjects connected by the particular
illusion, while in other respects he betrays no palpable disorder of
the mind.' That's quoted from Prichard." And he shut the book again,
and went back to put it in its place; but my cousin asked for it, and
turned to another page with an air of triumph. "'An object may appear
to be present before his eyes which has no existence whatever there....
If unable to correct or recognize it when an appeal is made to
reason, he is insane.' What do you think of that?" said he. "You had
better be on your guard, Jack. I'm very wise just now. I have been
studying up on insanity for a case of mine that's to be tried next
month,--at least I devoutly hope it is."

"But tell me something about Mr. Whiston," said I. "Do you suppose he
has no friends? He seems to have been wandering about the world for
years."

"I remember his telling me, when we were in college, that he had no
relatives except an old aunt, and a cousin, Henry Dunster, whom we
spoke of to-night, who was killed in the war. Whiston was very fond of
him; but I always thought Dunster was entirely unworthy his
friendship. Whiston was thought to be rich. His father left him a very
good property at any rate, and he was always a generous fellow.
Dunster made away with a good deal, I imagine; they roomed together,
and Whiston paid most of the bills. There was something weak and
out-of-the-way about him then, I remember thinking,