my advice—­well, it makes one feel humble, I think, rather than proud—­humble to remember, while others think so well of me, what I really am, in myself.  “Thou, that teachest another, teachest thou not thyself?” Well, I won’t talk about myself, it is not a healthy topic.  Perhaps it may be true of any two people, that, if one could see the other through and through, love would perish.  I don’t know.  Anyhow, I like to have the love of my child-friends, tho’ I know I don’t deserve it.  Please write as freely as ever you like.

I went up to town and fetched Phoebe down here on Friday in last week; and we spent most of Saturday upon the beach—­Phoebe wading and digging, and “as happy as a bird upon the wing” (to quote the song she sang when first I saw her).  Tuesday evening brought a telegram to say she was wanted at the theatre next morning.  So, instead of going to bed, Phoebe packed her things, and we left by the last train, reaching her home by a quarter to 1 a.m.  However, even four days of sea-air, and a new kind of happiness, did her good, I think.  I am rather lonely now she is gone.  She is a very sweet child, and a thoughtful child, too.  It was very touching to see (we had a little Bible-reading every day:  I tried to remember that my little friend had a soul to be cared for, as well as a body) the far-away look in her eyes, when we talked of God and of heaven—­as if her angel, who beholds His face continually, were whispering to her.

    Of course, there isn’t much companionship possible,
    after all, between an old man’s mind and a little child’s,
    but what there is is sweet—­and wholesome, I think.

Three letters of his to a child-friend, Miss Kathleen Eschwege, now Mrs. Round, illustrate one of those friendships which endure:  the sort of friendship that he always longed for, and so often failed to secure:—­

[Illustrations and:  Facsimile of a “Looking-Glass Letter” from Lewis Carroll to Miss Edith Ball.]

    Ch.  Ch., Oxford, October 24, 1879.

My dear Kathleen,—­I was really pleased to get your letter, as I had quite supposed I should never see or hear of you again.  You see I knew only your Christian name—­not the ghost of a surname, or the shadow of an address—­and I was not prepared to spend my little all in advertisements—­“If the young lady, who was travelling on the G.W.  Railway, &c.” —­or to devote the remainder of my life to going about repeating “Kathleen,” like that young woman who came from some foreign land to look for her lover, but only knew that he was called “Edward” (or “Richard” was it?  I dare say you know History better than I do) and that he lived in England; so that naturally it took her some time to find him.  All I knew was that you could, if you chose, write to me through Macmillan:  but it is three months since we met, so I was not expecting it, and it was a pleasant surprise.