inferred that the regular editions had been held back. But the
newspapers I had were dated about two weeks _ahead_. Now if a sane
person on February 1st receives a newspaper dated February 14th, be
will be fully justified in thinking something wrong, either with the
publication or with himself. But the shifted calendar which had planted
itself in my mind meant as much to me as the true calendar does to any
sane business man. During the seven hundred and ninety-eight days of
depression I drew countless incorrect deductions. But, such as they
were, they were deductions, and essentially the mental process was not
other than that which takes place in a well-ordered mind.

My gradually increasing vitality, although it increased my fear of
trial, impelled me to take new risks. I began to read not only
newspapers, but also such books as were placed within my reach. Yet had
they not been placed there, I should have gone without them, for I
would never ask even for what I greatly desired and knew I could have
for the asking.

Whatever love of literature I now have dates from this time, when I was
a mental incompetent and confined in an institution. Lying on a shelf
in my room was a book by George Eliot. For several days I cast longing
glances at it and finally plucked up the courage to take little nibbles
now and then. These were so good that I grew bold and at last began
openly to read the book. Its contents at the time made but little
impression on my mind, but I enjoyed it. I read also some of Addison's
essays; and had I been fortunate enough to have made myself familiar
with these earlier in life, I might have been spared the delusion that
I could detect, in many passages, the altering hand of my persecutors.

The friendly attendant, from whom I was now separated, tried to send