About this time there came to Washington a little girl who was deaf, dumb, and blind. It was little Helen Keller. She was accompanied by her teacher, who acted as her interpreter. A great desire of Helen’s life was to see a live monkey--that is, to see one with her fingers. The owner sent for me to come and show one to her. When any one except myself had put hands upon Nellie, she had growled and scolded and showed temper. I took her from the cage. When the little blind girl first put her hands on Nellie, the shy little monkey did not like it. I stroked the child’s hair and cheeks with my own hand and then with Nellie’s. She looked up at me and uttered one of those soft, flute-like sounds. Then she began to pull at the cheeks and ears of the child. Within a few minutes they were like old friends and playmates, and for nearly an hour they afforded each other great pleasure. At the end of that time they separated with reluctance. The little simian acted as if conscious of the sad affliction of the child, but seemed at perfect ease with her. She would decline the tenderest approach of others. She looked at the child’s eyes, and then at me, as if to indicate that she was aware that the child was blind. The little girl appeared not to be aware that monkeys could bite. It was a beautiful and touching scene, and one in which the lamp of instinct shed its feeble light on all around. Helen has now grown into womanhood. I recently paid her a visit, and she assured me that she still pleasantly remembered this dear little monkey friend. One day Nellie escaped from her cage and climbed upon a shelf occupied by some bird cages. As she climbed over the light wicker cages, some of them, with their little yellow occupants, fell to the floor. I tried to induce Nellie to return to me; but the falling cages, the cry of the birds, the screeching of the parrots, and the vociferous chatter of other monkeys frightened poor Nellie almost out of her wits. She, thinking I was the cause of all this trouble, because I was present, screamed with fright at my approach. Such is the rule that governs monkeydom. Monkeys suspect every one of doing wrong except themselves. I had her removed to my apartments. She was supplied with bells and toys, and was fed on the fat of the land. By this means we finally knitted together again the broken bones of our friendship. When once a monkey has grown suspicious of you, it seldom entirely recovers from aversion. In every act thereafter you are suspected of mischief. I made some good records of the speech of this amiable monkey and studied them with special care.