He looked after her until she was out of sight.

Then he produced his book of blank leaves.

But, instead of handing it to me as usual, he began to write in it himself.
"I have something to say to you," he explained.
It was only possible, while the book was in his possession, to remind him that I could hear, and that he could speak, by using the language of signs.

I touched my lips, and pointed to him; I touched my ear, and pointed to myself.
"Yes," he said, understanding me with his customary quickness; "but I want you to remember as well as to hear.

When I have filled this leaf, I shall beg you to keep it about you, and to refer to it from time to time." He wrote on steadily, until he had filled both sides of the slip of paper.
"Quite a little letter," he said.