fied. I will do him the justice to declare that I never, in all my
experience, saw him more completely crazy than he was to-night. What do
_you_ say?"

"I don't presume to dispute your opinion," I answered. "But, speaking
for myself, I'm not quite sure that he is mad."

"Not mad!" cried Mrs. Macallan, "after those frantic performances in his
chair? Not mad, after the exhibition he made of his unfortunate cousin?
Not mad, after the song that he sang in your honor, and the falling
asleep by way of conclusion? Oh, Valeria! Valeria! Well said the wisdom
of our ancestors--there are none so blind as those who won't see."

"Pardon me, dear Mrs. Macallan, I saw everything that you mention, and I
never felt more surprised or more confounded in my life. But now I have
recovered from my amazement, and can think it over quietly, I must still
venture to doubt whether this strange man is really mad in the true
meaning of the word. It seems to me that he only expresses--I admit in a
very reckless and boisterous way--thoughts and feelings which most of
us are ashamed of as weaknesses, and which we keep to ourselves
accordingly. I confess I have often fancied myself transformed into some
other person, and have felt a certain pleasure in seeing myself in my
new character. One of our first amusements as children (if we have any
imagination at all) is to get out of our own characters, and to try the
characters of other personages as a change--to fairies, to be queens, to
be anything, in short, but what we really are. Mr. Dexter lets out the
secret just as the children do, and if that is madness, he is certainly
mad. But I noticed that when his imagination cooled down he became
Miserrimus Dexter again--he no more believed himself than we believed
him to be Napoleon or Shakespeare. Besides, some allowance is surely to
be made for the solitary, sedentary life that he leads. I am not learned
enough to trace the influence of that life in making him what he is; but
I think I can see the result in an over-excited imagination, and I
fancy I can trace his exhibiting his power over the poor cousin and
his singing of that wonderful song to no more formidable cause than
inordinate self-conceit. I hope the confession will not lower me
seriously in your good opinion; but I must say I have enjoyed my visit,
and, worse still, Miserrimus Dexter really interests me."

"Does this learned discourse on Dexter mean that you are going to see
him again?" asked