her for half an hour, and she did not object; and a month or more

after that day, in her joy at arriving at school she would forget to give me a goodbye kiss — indeed, once she pushed me out the door and shut it in my face.

At school she learned the locations of the places she moved

among. She moved about with such ease that it was hard to tell her apart from the other children. When I first used to go to the school to bring her home, the children would crowd around me and ask: "Is it true your daughter is blind?" When I answered yes, they would say — "But her eyes

are open" — or they would say, "But she runs faster than we do." Sometimes they forgot to warn her that things lay in her path, and so they were greatly aston-ished when she stumbled. At last

they realized that there was a difference between her and them. If she asked one of them for some