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She observes the slightest emphasis placed upon a word in conversation, and she discovers meaning in every change of position, and in the varied play of the muscles of the hand. She responds quickly to the gentle pressure of affection, the pat of approval, the jerk of impatience, the firm motion of command, and to the many other variations of the almost infinite language of the feelings; and she has become so expert in interpreting this unconscious language of the emotions, that she is often able to divine our very thoughts.

In my account of Helen last year, I mentioned several instances of occasions wherein she seemed to have called into use an inexplicable mental faculty; but it now seems to me, after carefully considering the matter, that this power may be explained by her perfect familiarity with the muscular variations in the physique of those with whom she comes into contact, caused by the play of their different emotions. Surrounded by darkness and stillness, she has been forced to depend largely upon this muscular sense as a means of ascertaining the mental condition of those about her. She has learned to connect certain movements of the body with anger, others with joy, and others still with sorrow. One day, while she was walking out with her mother and Mr. Anagnos, a boy threw a torpedo, which startled Mrs. Keller. Helen felt the change in her mother's movements instantly, and asked, "what are we afraid of?" On one occasion, while walking on the common with her, I saw a police officer taking a man to the station house. The agitation which I felt evidently produced a perceptible physical change, for Helen asked, excitedly, "what do you see?"

A striking illustration of this strange power was recently shown while her ears were being examined by the aurists at Cincinnati. Several experiments were tried to determine positively whether or not she had any perception of sound. All present were astonished when she appeared not only to hear a whistle, but also an ordinary tone of voice. She would turn her head, smile, and act as though she had heard what was said. I was then standing beside her holding her hands. Thinking that in all probability she was receiving impressions from myself, I put her hands upon the table, and withdrew to the opposite side of the room. The aurists then tried their experiments with quite different results. Helen remained motionless through them all, not once showing the least sign, that she realized what was going on. At my suggestion, one of the gentlemen took her hand, and the tests were repeated. This time her countenance changed whenever she was spoken to, but there was not such a decided lighting up of the features as when I had held her hand.

It will be remembered, that in the account of Helen last year it was stated, that she knew nothing about death, or the burial of the body; and yet, on entering a cemetery for the first time in her life, she showed signs of emotion, -- her eyes actually filling with tears.

A circumstance equally remarkable occurred last summer; but, before relating it, I will mention what she now knows with regard to death. Even before I knew her, she had handled a dead chicken, or bird of some sort, and perhaps also the carcass of some other small animal, in which life was extinct; but her knowledge did not extend beyond what could be learned from such contact. Some time after the visit to the cemetery before referred to, Helen became interested in a horse that had met with an accident, by which one of his legs had been badly injured, and she went daily with me to visit him. The wounded leg soon became so much worse that the horse was suspended from a beam, in order to relieve the pressure upon the limb. The poor animal groaned with pain, and little Helen, perceiving his groans, was filled with pity. At last it became necessary to kill him, and when Helen next asked to go and see him, I told her that he was dead. This was the first time that she had learned this word. I then explained to her, that he had been shot, to relieve hint from suffering, and that he was now buried, -- put into the ground. I am inclined to believe that the idea of his having been intentionally shot did not make much impression upon her; but I think she did realize the fact that life was extinct in the horse as in the dead birds she had touched, and also that he had been put into the ground. Since this occurrence I have used the word dead whenever occasion required, but with no further explanation of its meaning.

While making it visit at Brewster, Mass., she one day accompanied my friend and myself through the graveyard. She examined one stone after another in a quiet wary, and seemed pleased when she could decipher a name. She smelt of the flowers, but showed no desire to pluck them; and when I gathered a few for her, she refused to have them pinned on her dress, although she is always very fond of wearing flowers. Her attention being drawn to a marble slab inscribed with the name FLORENCE in relief, she dropped upon the ground as though looking for something; then turned to me with a face full of trouble, and asked, "where is poor little Florence?" I evaded the question, but she persisted in asking about her. Turning to my friend, she asked, "did you cry loud for poor little Florence?" Then she added, "I think she is very dead. Who put her in big hole?" As she continued to ask these distressing questions, we left the cemetery. Florence was the daughter of my friend, and was a young lady at the time of her death; but Helen had been told nothing whatever about her, nor did she even know that my friend had ever had a daughter. On the evening of our arrival, Helen had been given a bed and carriage for her dolls, which she had received and used like any other gift. On her return to the house after her visit to the cemetery, she ran to the closet where these toys were kept, and carried them to my friend, saying, "they are poor little Florence's." This was perfectly true, although we were at a loss to understand how she divined it. A letter written to her mother in the course of the following week gave an account of her impressions in her own words: --