than that poor fellow; for the man in the street treats himself
as God Almighty when he knows he isn't. He expects the universe
to turn round him, though he knows he isn't the centre."

"Well," said Turnbull, sitting down on the grass, "this is a
digression, anyhow. What I want to point out is, that your faith
does end in asylums and my science doesn't."

"Doesn't it, by George!" cried MacIan, scornfully. "There are a
few men here who are mad on God and a few who are mad on the
Bible. But I bet there are many more who are simply mad on
madness."

"Do you really believe it?" asked the other.

"Scores of them, I should say," answered MacIan. "Fellows who
have read medical books or fellows whose fathers and uncles had
something hereditary in their heads--the whole air they breathe
is mad."

"All the same," said Turnbull, shrewdly, "I bet you haven't found
a madman of that sort."

"I bet I have!" cried Evan, with unusual animation. "I've been
walking about the garden talking to a poor chap all the morning.
He's simply been broken down and driven raving by your damned
science. Talk about believing one is God--why, it's quite an old,
comfortable, fireside fancy compared with the sort of things this
fellow believes. He believes that there is a God, but that he is
better than God. He says God will be afraid to face him. He says