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The following extracts from one of Miss Sullivan's letters, dated Tuscumbia, Ala., Sept. 13, 1891, show how strong is Helen's passion for books: --

. . . Sometimes the pony would step on a rolling stone and nearly throw Helen over his head, a performance which she enjoyed exceedingly. "Roguish pony," she would say, "you are getting very playful." Whether at home or on the mountain, she has a consuming passion for books. She seems to become less and less aware of her outward self. When left alone she will read and re-read for hours together the few books which form her little library. I think she is even more quiet, more thoughtful and imaginative than when you last saw her. She is quickly and deeply impressed by all that she reads. So marked is this quality that she seems to live a sort of double life, in which the scenes and characters she has read of are as real to her as the every-day occurrences and the people in the house. Yesterday I read to her the story of Macbeth, as told by Charles and Mary Lamb. She was very greatly excited by it, and said: "It is terrible! It makes me tremble!" After thinking a little while, she added: "I think Shakespeare made it very terrible, so that people would see how fearful it is to do wrong."

A few days ago we were gathering wild asters and goldenrod which grew on the hillside near the springs. Helen seemed to realize for the first time that the springs were all surrounded by mountains, and she explained it in such a pretty way. "Why!" she exclaimed, "the mountains are crowding around the springs to look at their own beautiful reflections."

One day she was riding on horseback with me, and nearly fell off while reaching out to catch the leaves as we rode along. When she was safely seated again I said, "You have been a naughty girl! How could I have gone home to mother without you?" "You need not have gone home to mother without me," she sobbed. "You could just as well have tied me up in a bundle and taken me home to my mother."

The following postscript, copied from a letter which I received from her during the summer vacation, gives an idea of her insatiable hunger for books, as well as of the kind of literature of which she is particularly fond: --

Will you please send me Bryant's poems and Evangeline? I have read all of my books over and over.

The two volumes mentioned in this requisition were sent to Helen without delay, and in a few weeks I received from her the following letter, which speaks for itself: --

TUSCUMBIA, ALA , Sept. 29, 1801.

MY DEAR MR. ANAGNOS: -- I was overjoyed to get Evangeline. What a sad, sweet poem it is! I could not keep back my tears when I read how the happy homes of Acadie were made desolate. Are not these lines about Evangeline mournful? I think they will always make me cry: --

"Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen."

If you read my letter to Miss Lane you know what I did while we were on the mountain. Oh, how I enjoyed the books teacher read to me! Reading new books is like making new friends. The days were bright and cool on the mountain, and I enjoyed the walks and rides through the woods with dear teacher. We were especially happy when the trees began to put on their autumn robes. Oh, yes! I could imagine how beautiful the trees were, all aglow, and rustling in the sunlight. We thought the leaves as pretty as flowers, and carried great bunches home to mother. The golden leaves I called buttercups and the red ones roses. One day teacher said, "Yes, they are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer." Sweet, wise Mother Nature thought we might miss the wondrous summer days, so she sent us September with

"Its sun-kis't hills at eventide,
Its ripened grain in fields so wide,
Its forest tinged with touch of gold,
A thing of beauty to behold."

Such amusing things happen sometimes. I will tell you what a little darkey said to father one day. One of the small calves swallowed a peach-seed, and father's hand was so large that he could not get it out. So he said to Pete, "Put your hand down the calf's throat and get the peach-seed." "Aint going to do any sech thing," said Pete. "I dun seed too many mens wid der hands bit off by calves."

Teacher says she has told you in her letter that we are not coming to Boston this year. I know you will miss your little bird, for you will seek for her in vain. Sunnier skies have whispered and beckoned your poor bird away. Somewhere she still is singing, but you will be sad when you pass her empty nest. But listen, dear friend, while a secret I tell to you. Another springtime is coming after the snow has gone, and then your robin will come back to you.

I will write again soon. Please give my love to everybody, and kiss Tommy for me.

Lovingly, your own birdie, H. A. K.

Mental Faculties.