the fever left me as suddenly and mysteriously as it had come.
There was great rejoicing in the family that morning, but no one,
not even the doctor, knew that I should never see or hear again.

I fancy I still have confused recollections of that illness. I
especially remember the tenderness with which my mother tried to
soothe me in my waling hours of fret and pain, and the agony and
bewilderment with which I awoke after a tossing half sleep, and
turned my eyes, so dry and hot, to the wall away from the
once-loved light, which came to me dim and yet more dim each day.
But, except for these fleeting memories, if, indeed, they be
memories, it all seems very unreal, like a nightmare. Gradually I
got used to the silence and darkness that surrounded me and
forgot that it had ever been different, until she came--my
teacher--who was to set my spirit free. But during the first
nineteen months of my life I had caught glimpses of broad, green
fields, a luminous sky, trees and flowers which the darkness that
followed could not wholly blot out. If we have once seen, "the
day is ours, and what the day has shown."



Chapter II

I cannot recall what happened during the first months after my
illness. I only know that I sat in my mother's lap or clung to
her dress as she went about her household duties. My hands felt
every object and observed every motion, and in this way I learned
to know many things. Soon I felt the need of some communication
with others and began to make crude signs. A shake of the head