He started, coloured, looked annoyed, then amused. He was fairly caught, for the patella, though of course a legitimate part of the skeleton, is formed in the tendon of the _Quadriceps Extensor_, and is described by Gray, because of its mode of development, as a kind of sesamoid bone--a fact which had somehow stuck in my memory, as unimportant things will, while others of greater import sifted through. The Demonstrator walked away looking a little chagrined, but later I saw him laughing on the sly with the seniors, and before he left he came back and said, “You may take your ‘sesamoid bone’, Miss Arnold; you have earned it.” I had not thought out how I could contrive to get a souvenir from my next “part,” but this same Demonstrator unwittingly helped me out. I was at work on the wrist, and as he stood looking on he asked, “Have you found any more ‘sesamoid’ bones?” I said No, but just then the little pisiform bone, not much bigger than a pea, stood out so conspicuously that, seeing how easy it would be to sever it from the other small bones, I purposely made a careless cut, and the little thing rolled on the table. “Oh, my!--well, you surely wouldn’t have me put that mite in the pail--and it won’t stay on the wrist _now_.” He knew, and I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew that he knew, that I did it purposely--his question, the prominence of the tiny bone with its slender attachment, put it in my head--“Opportunity makes the thief.” So he let me have the pisiform, but shook his head as though he thought me incorrigible; and after that rallied me on what ruse I would resort to with my next “part,” as I could hardly take the head, or any of the vertebræ. I have these bones somewhere now. They gave me a lot of bother to get clean, and of what earthly use are they? Yet perhaps as much as many of the things we scheme and work for. It is the endeavour that counts, and it was fun to outwit the Demonstrator. So we managed to get some amusement out of the dry bones, but were glad when the long weeks were at an end and we could go out in the sunshine after lectures instead of working in that unsightly upper room. One of the memorable experiences of that first year was an afternoon spent with Laura Bridgman. Helen Keller’s achievements have since familiarized us with what wonders can be done in teaching one who is deaf, dumb, and blind, but when Dr. Samuel G. Howe attempted to teach the child, Laura, it was pioneer work, and the difficulties were well-nigh insuperable.