fore a week had passed
bronchial symptoms had developed, and Dr. Gabb, the family physician,
ordered him to keep his bed. His breathing rapidly became hard and
laborious, and he had to be propped up with pillows. A few days before
his death he asked one of his sisters to read him that well-known
hymn, every verse of which ends with 'Thy Will be done.' To another he
said that his illness was a great trial of his patience. How great a
trial it must have been it is hard for us to understand. With the work
he had set himself still uncompleted, with a sense of youth and
joyousness, which sixty years of the battle of life had in no way
dulled, Lewis Carroll had to face death. He seemed to know that the
struggle was over. "Take away those pillows," he said on the 13th, "I
shall need them no more." The end came about half-past two on the
afternoon of the 14th. One of his sisters was in the room at the time,
and she only noticed that the hard breathing suddenly ceased. The
nurse, whom she summoned, at first hoped that this was a sign that he
had taken a turn for the better. And so, indeed, he had--he had passed
from a world of incompleteness and disappointment, to another where
God is putting his beautiful soul to nobler and grander work than was
possible for him here, where he is learning to comprehend those
difficulties which used to puzzle him so much, and where that infinite
Love, which he mirrored so wonderfully in his own life, is being
revealed to him "face to face."

In accordance with his expressed wish, the funeral was simple in the
extreme--flowers, and flowers only, adorned the plain coffin. There
was no hearse to drag it up the steep incline that leads to the
beautiful cemetery where he lies. The service was taken by Dean Paget
and Canon Grant, Rector of Holy Trinity and S. Mary's, Guildford. The
mourners who followed him in the quiet procession were few--but the
mourners who were not there, and many of whom had never seen him--who
shall tell _their_ number?

After the grave had been filled up, the wreaths which had covered the
coffin were placed upon it. Many were from "child-friends" and bore
such inscriptions as "From two of his child-friends"--"To the sweetest
soul that ever looked with human eyes," &c. Then the mourners left him
alone there--up on the pleasant downs where he had so often walked.

A marble cross, under the shadow of a pine, marks the spot, and
beneath his own name they have engraved the name