The other night when I went to bed, I found Helen sound asleep
with a big book clasped tightly in her arms. She had evidently
been reading, and fallen asleep. When I asked her about it in the
morning, she said, "Book--cry," and completed her meaning by
shaking and other signs of fear. I taught her the word AFRAID,
and she said: "Helen is not afraid. Book is afraid. Book will
sleep with girl." I told her that the book wasn't afraid, and
must sleep in its case, and that "girl" mustn't read in bed. She
looked very roguish, and apparently understood that I saw through
her ruse.

I am glad Mr. Anagnos thinks so highly of me as a teacher. But
"genius" and "originality" are words we should not use lightly.
If, indeed, they apply to me even remotely, I do not see that I
deserve any laudation on that account.

And right here I want to say something which is for your ears
alone. Something within me tells me that I shall succeed beyond
my dreams. Were it not for some circumstances that make such an
idea highly improbable, even absurd, I should think Helen's
education would surpass in interest and wonder Dr. Howe's
achievement. I know that she has remarkable powers, and I believe
that I shall be able to develop and mould them. I cannot tell how
I know these things. I had no idea a short time ago how to go to
work; I was feeling about in the dark; but somehow I know now,
and I know that I know. I cannot explain it; but when
difficulties arise, I am not perplexed or doubtful. I know how to
meet them; I seem to divine Helen's peculiar needs. It is
wonderful.