isolated, but clear and distinct, making the sense of that
silent, aimless, dayless life all the more intense.

One day I happened to spill water on my apron, and I spread it
out to dry before the fire which was flickering on the
sitting-room hearth. The apron did not dry quickly enough to suit
me, so I drew nearer and threw it right over the hot ashes. The
fire leaped into life; the flames encircled me so that in a
moment my clothes were blazing. I made a terrified noise that
brought Viny, my old nurse, to the rescue. Throwing a blanket
over me, she almost suffocated me, but she put out the fire.
Except for my hands and hair I was not badly burned.

About this time I found out the use of a key. One morning I
locked my mother up in the pantry, where she was obliged to
remain three hours, as the servants were in a detached part of
the house. She kept pounding on the door, while I sat outside on
the porch steps and laughed with glee as I felt the jar of the
pounding. This most naughty prank of mine convinced my parents
that I must be taught as soon as possible. After my teacher, Miss
Sullivan, came to me, I sought an early opportunity to lock her
in her room. I went upstairs with something which my mother made
me understand I was to give to Miss Sullivan; but no sooner had I
given it to her than I slammed the door to, locked it, and hid
the key under the wardrobe in the hall. I could not be induced to
tell where the key was. My father was obliged to get a ladder and
take Miss Sullivan out through the window--much to my delight.
Months after I produced the key.

When I was about five years old we moved from the little