I don’t think that he ever really understood that we, whom he had known as children, could not always remain such.  I stayed with him only a few years ago, at Eastbourne, and felt for the time that I was once more a child.  He never appeared to realise that I had grown up, except when I reminded him of the fact, and then he only said, “Never mind:  you will always be a child to me, even when your hair is grey.”

Some of the letters, to which Miss Chataway refers in these reminiscences, I am enabled, through her kindness, to give below:—­

    Christ Church, Oxford, October 13, 1875.

My dear Gertrude,—­I never give birthday presents, but you see I do sometimes write a birthday letter:  so, as I’ve just arrived here, I am writing this to wish you many and many a happy return of your birthday to-morrow.  I will drink your health, if only I can remember, and if you don’t mind—­but perhaps you object?  You see, if I were to sit by you at breakfast, and to drink your tea, you wouldn’t like that, would you?  You would say “Boo! hoo!  Here’s Mr. Dodgson’s drunk all my tea, and I haven’t got any left!” So I am very much afraid, next time Sybil looks for you, she’ll find you sitting by the sad sea-wave, and crying “Boo! hoo!  Here’s Mr. Dodgson has drunk my health, and I haven’t got any left!” And how it will puzzle Dr. Maund, when he is sent for to see you!  “My dear Madam, I’m very sorry to say your little girl has got no health at all!  I never saw such a thing in my life!” “Oh, I can easily explain it!” your mother will say.  “You see she would go and make friends with a strange gentleman, and yesterday he drank her health!” “Well, Mrs. Chataway,” he will say, “the only way to cure her is to wait till his next birthday, and then for her to drink his health.”

    And then we shall have changed healths.  I wonder how you’ll
    like mine!  Oh, Gertrude, I wish you wouldn’t talk such
    nonsense!...

    Your loving friend,

    Lewis Carroll.

    Christ Church, Oxford, Dec. 9, 1875.

My dear Gertrude,—­This really will not do, you know, sending one more kiss every time by post:  the parcel gets so heavy it is quite expensive.  When the postman brought in the last letter, he looked quite grave.  “Two pounds to pay, sir!” he said. “Extra weight, sir!” (I think he cheats a little, by the way.  He often makes me pay two pounds, when I think it should be pence).  “Oh, if you please, Mr. Postman!” I said, going down gracefully on one knee (I wish you could see me go down on one knee to a postman—­it’s a very pretty sight), “do excuse me just this once!  It’s only from a little girl!”

“Only from a little girl!” he growled.  “What are little girls made of?” “Sugar and spice,” I began to say, “and all that’s ni—­”