But now, as I read my own words, in a delicious confusion, the idea was born.

I stared at my name: MARY ANTIN.

Was that really I?
The printed characters composing it seemed strange to me all of a sudden.

If that was my name, and those were the words out of my own head, what relation did it all have to _me_, who was alone there with Miss Dillingham, and the printed page between us?
Why, it meant that I could write again, and see my writing printed for people to read! I could write many, many, many things: I could write a book! The idea was so huge, so bewildering, that my mind scarcely could accommodate it.
I do not know what my teacher said to me; probably very little.

It was her way to say only a little, and look at me, and trust me to understand.