been dead many years. His methods had probably died with him; and
if they had not, how was a little girl in a far-off town in
Alabama to receive the benefit of them?

When I was about six years old, my father heard of an eminent
oculist in Baltimore, who had been successful in many cases that
had seemed hopeless. My parents at once determined to take me to
Baltimore to see if anything could be done for my eyes.

The journey, which I remember well was very pleasant. I made
friends with many people on the train. One lady gave me a box of
shells. My father made holes in these so that I could string
them, and for a long time they kept me happy and contented. The
conductor, too, was kind. Often when he went his rounds I clung
to his coat tails while he collected and punched the tickets. His
punch, with which he let me play, was a delightful toy. Curled up
in a corner of the seat I amused myself for hours making funny
little holes in bits of cardboard.

My aunt made me a big doll out of towels. It was the most comical
shapeless thing, this improvised doll, with no nose, mouth, ears
or eyes--nothing that even the imagination of a child could
convert into a face. Curiously enough, the absence of eyes struck
me more than all the other defects put together. I pointed this
out to everybody with provoking persistency, but no one seemed
equal to the task of providing the doll with eyes. A bright idea,
however, shot into my mind, and the problem was solved. I tumbled
off the seat and searched under it until I found my aunt's cape,
which was trimmed with large beads. I pulled two beads off and
indicated to her that I wanted her to sew them on my doll. She