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 his favors after me into my new quarters.  At first he came in person to see me, but the superintendent soon forbade that, and also ordered him not to communicate with me in any way.  It was this disagreement, and others naturally arising between such a doctor and such an attendant, that soon brought about the discharge of the latter.  But “discharge” is hardly the word, for he had become disgusted with the institution, and had remained so long only because of his interest in me.  Upon leaving, he informed the owner that he would soon cause my removal from the institution.  This he did.  I left the sanatorium in March, 1901, and remained for three months in the home of this kindly fellow, who lived with a grandmother and an aunt in Wallingford, a town not far from New Haven.

It is not to be inferred that I entertained any affection for my friendly keeper.  I continued to regard him as an enemy; and my life at his home became a monotonous round of displeasure.  I took my three meals a day.  I would sit listlessly for hours at a time in the house.  Daily I went out—­accompanied, of course—­for short walks about the town.  These were not enjoyable.  I believed everybody was familiar with my black record and expected me to be put to death.  Indeed, I wondered why passers-by did not revile or even stone me.  Once I was sure I heard a little girl call me “Traitor!” That, I believe, was my last “false voice,” but it made such an impression that I can even now recall vividly the appearance of that dreadful child.  It was not surprising that a piece of rope, old and frayed, which someone had carelessly thrown on a hedge by a cemetery that I sometimes passed, had for me great significance.

During these three months I again refused to read books, though within my reach, but I sometimes read newspapers.  Still I would not speak, except under some unusual stress of emotion.  The only time I took the initiative in this regard while living in the home of my attendant was on a bitterly cold and snowy day when I had the temerity to tell him that the wind had blown the blanket from a horse that had been standing for a long time in front of the house.  The owner had come inside to transact