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The morning hours were full of work for both of us; but Helen most gladly sacrificed a part of her afternoon freedom, for the sake of this new language-study; and five o'clock always found her ready for the French lessons. Friends, books or playthings were quickly abandoned by this faithful little student, as soon as my presence warned her of the hour.

Sometimes she would quietly sit and wait for me. She made a beautiful picture, leaning forward in her rocking-chair, with her face turned toward the door, listening for my footsteps. She often enjoyed a walk in the afternoon; but she was very careful that it should be of such a length as to ensure promptness at the French lesson. Once or twice, when she had taken a longer walk than usual, and was thereby belated, she showed much anxiety, and urged her companions to run a part of the way home, that she might not "be very late to French." The thought that I would be waiting for her was in itself a sufficient incentive to speed. She never absented herself from the entire study hour without previous expressions of sincere regret.

Our first lesson comprised some of the sentences oftenest used in every-day conversation. Each sentence, preceded by its English equivalent, was slowly spelled to Helen, who, after once repeating it with her fingers, was ready to learn another. Many short sentences thus became familiar to her within the hour.

Her first perplexity was caused by the varying forms of the definite and indefinite articles; yet, when her questions regarding them had been answered, and she understood that memory must be the chief aid in the correct use of these words, she fitted them to the various nouns in her vocabulary, with an earnestness which was a certain prophecy of future accuracy; and in all her later work a mistake in their use was rarely made. Accuracy is indeed one of Helen's prominent characteristics. I noticed it especially in her writing. She liked to sit down with her Braille tablet and stiletto, and translate sentences from English into French. If she was at all doubtful of the spelling of any word, or the construction of any sentence, she indicated the doubt to me, by making with her fingers the letters of the word or sentence before she trusted them to the paper. She was much troubled by a mistake of any kind, and, if she discovered one, she was never willing to continue writing until it had been satisfactorily corrected. Idioms did not puzzle her. She seemed to apprehend intuitively that every language has its own peculiar modes of expression, and she also readily accepted the many different verb forms which the French lessons brought to her notice. It was seldom that she was confused, either in conversation or composition, by any verb structure which had been previously indicated in her French exercises.

Helen soon advanced to a point where I was sure of her enjoyment of a simple French story. The first one which she read was Un Enfant Perdu dans la Neige, taken from Paul Berry's little book, Le Second Livre des Enfants. I wrote the story in Braille; and Helen, being familiar with most of the words, translated it very rapidly. Soon afterwards she surprised me by telling it in French. She had remembered the construction and arrangement of the successive sentences with wonderful correctness.

From this time forth stories were often selected as the subject of our lessons, in response to her eager requests. These stories I usually read to Helen, pausing after each sentence or group of sentences for the interpretation which her fingers were so ready to give. Frequently she correctly translated new words, from their close association with some which were already well known. When I had finished reading a story, Helen enjoyed writing it in Braille, the order of the previous exercise being now reversed, my fingers furnishing the English words which Helen's stiletto rapidly translated into their original French forms. Her face all the while afforded a most beautiful revelation of the pleasure which she derived from this kind of work.

The children whom Helen met in these stories were very real to her, and she kept them in loving remembrance. She was much pleased whenever a prompt appearance at the breakfast table caused her to be likened to la petite Louise, a favorite story with her.

She was always amused when she found French words spelled like English ones, and having the same meaning. She would laugh, and say in her brightest way, "It is just like our word!" She was quick to notice when there was a similarity between French words and the corresponding ones of our language.

Certain French words were especially pleasing to her. As new ones were presented to her mind, there were always some which she designated as pretty words. They were almost invariably those which combined letters in such a way as to produce a musical sound.

The power of discrimination in the choice of words has been frequently illustrated in her English conversation and composition. She often showed her originality by changing given sentences, so as to express different or additional ideas, or by forming some wholly from her own mind. The word campagne had occurred several times in her lessons, but she had not learned the word for country in its broadest sense. Upon Washington's birthday she formed this sentence: "George Washington etait le pere de notre campagne." She wrote French letters to several friends, using words gained from the lessons in order to express her own thoughts; and she was quite adroit in composing sentences within the compass of her vocabulary. Her knowledge of the idioms and the construction of the French language was not, however, sufficient to enable her to reach perfection in this independent work. When her mistakes were made known to her, it was interesting to watch her face, as she contrasted them with the correct forms of expression. She quickly recognized the essential points of difference, and laughingly said, "I have been writing very funny French!"