The day I began this letter I had proof that I had not merely fancied movement, when the little girl startled me.  A clumsy boy stumbled over my couch, and I shrank, visibly, from receiving upon my feet the pitcher of water he was carrying.  I was in the porch.  The beautiful girl who formerly made my affliction so bitter to me was passing at the moment, with her arm drawn affectionately through her father’s.  She saw the stumble, and sprang forward with a cry of alarm.  It looked, certainly, as if my defenceless feet must receive the crash, and I attempted instinctively to withdraw them,—­partially succeeding!  I saw this at the same time that I heard the sweetest words that ever fell into my heart, in the most joyful, self-forgetful tones of the sweetest voice!

“Oh, father!  He moved!  He moved!”

Mr. Winston turned to me with congratulations, shaking my hand with warmth; and then his daughter extended hers,—­cordially!  Of course my happiness was brimming!

I afterwards tried repeatedly to put my feet in motion.  I could not do it.  I could not think how to begin,—­what power to bring to bear upon them.  This annoyed me beyond measure, and I spent yesterday in wearisome effort to no purpose.  My thinking, willing mind was of no use to me; but instinctive feeling, and a chapter of accidents, have brought me to my present state of activity.  A wish to change an uncomfortable position in which Ben left me this morning restored me to voluntary action.  I tried to turn away from the sun-glare, using my elbows, as usual, for motors.  To my surprise, I found myself assisting with my feet,—­and by force of will I persisted in the effort, and continued the action.  Having got the clue to the mystery, I have now only to will and execute.  My rebellious members are brought into subjection!  I am king of myself!  Hurrah!

Good-bye, dearest friend.  I shake my foot to you,—­an action more expressive of joyful good-will than my best bow.

I hope my return to health will not cost me dear.  I begin to fear losing the sympathy and affection of those I have learned to love so dearly, and who have cherished me in their hearts simply because of my infirmities.  When I am a vigorous man, will you care for me? will Kate centre her life in me? will Miss Ada Winston look at me so often and so gently?

Well, don’t laugh at me for my grasping disposition!  Affection is very grateful to me, and I should be sorry to do without it, after having lived in a loving atmosphere so long.

I believe Ben is as proud of me as he was of his Shanghai, but he has a proverb which he quotes whenever he sees me much elated:  “When the cup’s fu’, carry’t even.”  His own cautious Scotch head could do that, perhaps; but mine is more giddy, and I am afraid I shall spill some drops from my full cup of joy by too rash advancing.

Kate is not so wild with delight as I am.  She still forbids herself to exult.  Probably she dares not give way to unbounded hope, remembering the bitterness of her former trial, and dreading its recurrence.  She says it makes her tremble to see my utter abandonment to joyful dreams.