such benevolence, such—­as a great secret (please don’t repeat it) the Queen sent to ask for a copy of it, but as it is against my rule to give in such a case, I was obliged to answer—­

“Mr. Dodgson presents his compliments to her Majesty, and regrets to say that his rule is never to give his photograph except to young ladies.”  I am told she was annoyed about it, and said, “I’m not so old as all that comes to!” and one doesn’t like to annoy Queens; but really I couldn’t help it, you know.

I will conclude this chapter with some reminiscences of Lewis Carroll, which have been kindly sent me by an old child-friend of his, Mrs. Maitland, daughter of the late Rev. E.A.  Litton, Rector of Naunton, and formerly Fellow of Oriel College and Vice-Principal of Saint Edmund’s Hall:—­

    To my mind Oxford will be never quite the same again now
    that so many of the dear old friends of one’s childhood have
    “gone over to the great majority.”

Often, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced on the old wainscotted wall, have we—­father and I—­chatted over the old Oxford days and friends, and the merry times we all had together in Long Wall Street.  I was a nervous, thin, remarkably ugly child then, and for some years I was left almost entirely to the care of Mary Pearson, my own particular attendant.  I first remember Mr. Dodgson when I was about seven years old, and from that time until we went to live in Gloucestershire he was one of my most delightful friends.

I shall never forget how Mr. Dodgson and I sat once under a dear old tree in the Botanical Gardens, and how he told me, for the first time, Hans Andersen’s story of the “Ugly Duckling.”  I cannot explain the charm of Mr. Dodgson’s way of telling stories; as he spoke, the characters seemed to be real flesh and blood.  This particular story made a great impression upon me, and interested me greatly, as I was very sensitive about my ugly little self.  I remember his impressing upon me that it was better to be good and truthful and to try not to think of oneself than to be a pretty, selfish child, spoiled and disagreeable; and, after telling me this story, he gave me the name of “Ducky.”  “Never mind, little Ducky,” he used often to say, “perhaps some day you will turn out a swan.”

I always attribute my love for animals to the teaching of Mr. Dodgson:  his stories about them, his knowledge of their lives and histories, his enthusiasm about birds and butterflies enlivened many a dull hour.  The monkeys in the Botanical Gardens were our special pets, and when we fed them with nuts and biscuits he seemed to enjoy the fun as much as I did.

Every day my nurse and I used to take a walk in Christ Church Meadows, and often we would sit down on the soft grass, with the dear old Broad Walk quite close, and, when we raised our eyes, Merton College, with its walls covered with