stminster
Abbey."

The original dedication in "Adam Bede" reads thus:

"To my dear husband, George Henry Lewes, I give the manuscript of a work
which would never have been written but for the happiness which his love
has conferred on my life."

Lord Acton of course assumes that this book would have been written,
dedication and all, just the same had Miss Evans never met Mr. Lewes.

Once there was a child called Romola. She said to her father one day, as
she sat on his knee: "Papa, who would take care of me--give me my bath
and put me to bed nights--if you had never happened to meet Mamma?"

* * * * *

The days I spent in Warwickshire were very pleasant.

The serene beauty of the country and the kindly courtesy of the people
impressed me greatly. Having beheld the scenes of George Eliot's
childhood, I desired to view the place where her last days were spent. It
was a fine May day when I took the little steamer from London Bridge for
Chelsea.

A bird-call from the dingy brick building where Turner died, and two
blocks from the old home of Carlyle, is Cheyne Walk--a broad avenue
facing the river. The houses are old, but they have a look of gracious
gentility that speaks of ease and plenty. High iron fences are in front,
but they do not shut off from view the climbing clematis and clusters of
roses that gather over the windows and doors.

I stood at the gate of Number 4 Cheyne Walk and admired the pretty
flowers, planted in such artistic carelessness as to beds and rows; then
I rang the bell--an old pull-out affair with polished knob.

Presently a butler opened the door--a pompous, tall and awful butler in
serious black and with side-whiskers. He approached; came down the walk
swinging a bunch of keys, looking me over as he came, to see what sort
of wares I had to sell.

"Did George Eliot live here?" I asked through the bars.

"Mrs. Cross lived 'ere and died 'ere, sir," came the solemn and rebuking
answer.

"I mean Mrs. Cross," I added meekly; "I only wished to see the little
garden where she worked."

Jeemes was softened. As he unlocked the gate he said:

"We 'ave many wisiters, sir; a great bother, sir; still, I always knows a
gentleman when I sees one. P'r'aps you would like to see the 'ouse, too,
sir. The missus does not like it much, but I will take 'er your card,
sir."

I gave him the card and slipped a shilling into his hand as he gave me a
seat in the hallway.

H