write, we can go back over our work, shuffle the pages,
interline, rearrange, see how the paragraphs look in proof, and
so construct the whole work before the eye, as an architect
constructs his plans. When Miss Keller puts her work in
typewritten form, she cannot refer to it again unless some one
reads it to her by means of the manual alphabet.

This difficulty is in part obviated by the use of her braille
machine, which makes a manuscript that she can read; but as her
work must be put ultimately in typewritten form, and as a braille
machine is somewhat cumbersome, she has got into the habit of
writing directly on her typewriter. She depends so little on her
braille manuscript, that, when she began to write her story more
than a year ago and had put in braille a hundred pages of
material and notes, she made the mistake of destroying these
notes before she had finished her manuscript. Thus she composed
much of her story on the typewriter, and in constructing it as a
whole depended on her memory to guide her in putting together the
detached episodes, which Miss Sullivan read over to her.

Last July, when she had finished under great pressure of work her
final chapter, she set to work to rewrite the whole story. Her
good friend, Mr. William Wade, had a complete braille copy made
for her from the magazine proofs. Then for the first time she had
her whole manuscript under her finger at once. She saw
imperfections in the arrangement of paragraphs and the repetition
of phrases. She saw, too, that her story properly fell into short
chapters and redivided it.

Partly from temperament, partly from the conditions of her work,