"
"Then you still hope to prove--"
"I haven't any hope. I've given up."
"Why?" Ellsworth asked, sharply.
"Because I know the truth. Because I'm--going crazy. Fact! I can
see it myself now."
"Why, boy, that's imagination, nothing else."
"Perhaps," Dave agreed, listlessly. "I'm reading everything on the
subject of insanity that I can get hold of."
Ellsworth tried to laugh. "That in itself is enough to unbalance
you."
"I'm moody, depressed; I'm getting so I imagine things. By and by
I'll begin to think I'm persecuted--I believe that's how it works.
Already I have hallucinations in broad daylight, and I'm afraid of
the dark. Fancy! I don't sleep very often, and when I do I wake up
in a puddle of sweat, shivering. And dreams! God, what dreams! I
know they're dreams, now, but sooner or later I suppose I'll begin
to believe in 'em." Dave sighed and settled lower in his chair.
"I--I'm mighty tired."
Ellsworth clapped him on the back. "Come, now! A perfectly healthy
man could wreck his reason this way. You must stop it. You must do
something to occupy your mind."
"Sure. That's what brings me home. I'm going to the front."
"To the war?"
"Yes.
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