author of ‘Alice’s Adventures.’” He laughed, but looked astonished, and said, “My dear Madam, my name is Dodgson, and ‘Alice’s Adventures’ was written by Lewis Carroll.”  I replied, “Then you must have borrowed the name, for only he could have told a story as you have just done.”  After a little sparring he admitted the fact, and I went home and proudly told my sister and brother how my genius had turned out a greater one than I expected.  They assured me I must be mistaken, and that, as I had suggested it to him, he had taken advantage of the idea, and said he was what I wanted him to be.  A few days after some friends came to Whitby who knew his aunts, and confirmed the truth of his statement, and thus I made the acquaintance of one whose friendship has been the source of great pleasure for nearly thirty years.  He has most generously sent us all his books, with kind inscriptions, to “Minnie and Doe,” whom he photographed, but would not take Canon Bennie or me; he said he never took portraits of people of more than seventeen years of age until they were seventy.  He visited us, and we often met him at Eastbourne, and his death was indeed a great loss after so many happy years of friendship with one we so greatly admired and loved.

He spent a part of the Long Vacation at Freshwater, taking great interest in the children who, for him, were the chief attraction of the seaside.

Every morning four little children dressed in yellow go by from the front down to the beach:  they go by in a state of great excitement, brandishing wooden spades, and making strange noises; from that moment they disappear entirely—­they are never to be seen on the beach.  The only theory I can form is, that they all tumble into a hole somewhere, and continue excavating therein during the day:  however that may be, I have once or twice come across them returning at night, in exactly the same state of excitement, and seemingly in quite as great a hurry to get home as they were before to get out.  The evening noises they make sound to me very much like the morning noises, but I suppose they are different to them, and contain an account of the day’s achievements.

His enthusiasm for photography, and his keen appreciation of the beautiful, made him prefer the society of artists to that of any other class of people.  He knew the Rossettis intimately, and his Diary shows him to have been acquainted with Millais, Holman Hunt, Sant, Westmacott, Val Prinsep, Watts, and a host of others.  Arthur Hughes painted a charming picture to his order ("The Lady with the Lilacs”) which used to hang in his rooms at Christ Church.  The Andersons were great friends of his, Mrs. Anderson being one of his favourite child-painters.  Those who have visited him at Oxford will remember a beautiful girl’s head, painted by her from a rough sketch she had once made in a railway carriage of a child who happened to be sitting opposite her.

[Illustration:  J. Sant. From a photograph by Lewis Carroll.]