revealed it as no burglar, and there was nothing for it but to crawl upon them, roaring as a lion.  Bursting in upon them in their strong-hold under the table, I was met by the staid but amused gaze of a reverend gentleman.  Frequently afterwards did I see and hear “Lewis Carroll” entertaining the youngsters in his inimitable way.

We became friends, and greatly did I enjoy intercourse with him over various minor Oxford matters.  In later years, at one time I saw much of him, in quite another role—­namely that of ardent sympathy with the, as he thought, ill-treated and deserted islanders of Tristan d’Acunha.  His brother, it will be remembered, had voluntarily been left at that island with a view to ministering to the spiritual and educational needs of the few settlers, and sent home such graphic accounts and urgent demands for aid, that “Lewis Carroll” spared no pains to organise assistance and relief.  At his instance I brought the matter before Government and the House of Commons, and from that day to this frequent communication has been held with the islanders, and material assistance has been rendered them—­thanks to the warm heart of “Lewis Carroll.”

On December 23, 1897, as the note in his Diary states, he went down, in accordance with his usual custom, to Guildford, to spend Christmas with his sisters at the Chestnuts.  He seemed to be in his ordinary health, and in the best of spirits, and there was nothing to show that the end was so near.

[Illustration:  The Chestnuts, Guildford. From a photograph.]

At Guildford he was hard at work upon the second part of his “Symbolic Logic,” spending most of the day over this task.  This book, alas! he was not destined to finish, which is the more to be regretted as it will be exceedingly difficult for any one else to take up the thread of the argument, even if any one could be found willing to give the great amount of time and trouble which would be needed.

On January 5th my father, the Rev. C.S.  Collingwood, Rector of Southwick, near Sunderland, died after a very short illness.  The telegram which brought Mr. Dodgson the news of this contained the request that he would come at once.  He determined to travel north the next day—­but it was not to be so.  An attack of influenza, which began only with slight hoarseness, yet enough to prevent him from following his usual habit of reading family prayers, was pronounced next morning to be sufficiently serious to forbid his undertaking a journey.  At first his illness seemed a trifle, but before a week had passed bronchial symptoms had developed, and Dr. Gabb, the family physician, ordered him to keep his bed.  His breathing rapidly became hard and laborious, and he had to be propped up with pillows.  A few days before his death he asked one of his sisters to read him that well-known hymn, every verse of which ends with ‘Thy Will be done.’  To another he said that his illness was a great trial of his