"If I had a daughter she would be your cousin; now you have no cousin, therefore I have no daughter."
"You're right. I had the happiness of seeing her this summer at Ems Springs, with her mother. I love her; I have reason to think that I am not indifferent to her, and I have the honor to ask you for her hand."
"Whose hand?"
"Mademoiselle's hand—your daughter's."
"Well, so be it," thought M. Morlot; "M. Auvray will be very skilful if he cures him. I will pay six thousand francs board from my nephew's income. Six from thirty leaves twenty-four. I shall be rich. Poor François!"
He seated himself and casually opened a book. "Sit down there," he said to the young man; "I'll read you something. Try to listen: it will calm you down." He read:
"Monomania is the persistence of one idea, the exclusive domination of a single passion. Its seat is in the heart; there it must be sought and there it must be cured. Its cause is love, fear, vanity, ambition, remorse. It displays itself by the same symptoms as passion generally; sometimes by joy, gayety, daring, and noise; sometimes by timidity, sadness, and silence."
During the reading, François seemed to grow quiet and drop asleep. "Bravo!" thought M. Morlot. "Here's a miracle performed by medi-
