onor they may have
had, and I was not fully reassured.

In the afternoon, as usual, the patients were taken out of doors, I
among them. I wandered about the lawn and cast frequent and expectant
glances toward the gate, through which I believed my anticipated
visitor would soon pass. In less than an hour he appeared. I first
caught sight of him about three hundred feet away, and, impelled more
by curiosity than hope, I advanced to meet him. "I wonder what the lie
will be this time," was the gist of my thoughts.

The person approaching me was indeed the counterpart of my brother as I
remembered him. Yet he was no more my brother than he had been at any
time during the preceding two years. He was still a detective. Such he
was when I shook his hand. As soon as that ceremony was over, he drew
forth a leather pocketbook. I instantly recognized it as one I myself
had carried for several years prior to the time I was taken ill in
1900. It was from this that he took my recent letter.

"Here's my passport," he said.

"It's a good thing you brought it," I replied, as I glanced at it and
again shook his hand--this time the hand of my own brother.

"Don't you want to read it?" he asked.

"There is no need of that. I am convinced."

After my long journey of exploration in the jungle of a tangled
imagination, a journey which finally ended in my finding the person for
whom I had long searched, my behavior differed very little from that of
a great explorer who, full of doubt after a long and perilous trip
through real jungles, found the man he sought and, grasping his hand,
greeted him with the simple and historic words, "Dr. Livingstone, I
presume?"

The very instant I caught sight of my letter in the hands of my
brother, all was changed. The thousands of false impressions recorded
during the seven hundred and ninety-eight days of my depression seemed
at once to correct themselves. Untruth became Truth. A large part of
what was once my old world was again mine. To me, at last my mind
seemed to have found itself, for the gigantic web of false beliefs in
which it had been all but hopelessly enmeshed I now immediately
recognized as a snare of delusions. That the Gordian knot of mental
torture should be cut and swept away by the mere glance of a willing
eye is like a miracle. Not a few patients, however, suffering from
certain forms of mental disorder, regain a high degree of insight into
their mental condition in what might be