that summer, and
the friendship, thus begun, lasted. His letters were one of
the greatest joys of my childhood.

I don't think that he ever really understood that we, whom
he had known as children, could not always remain such. I
stayed with him only a few years ago, at Eastbourne, and
felt for the time that I was once more a child. He never
appeared to realise that I had grown up, except when I
reminded him of the fact, and then he only said, "Never
mind: you will always be a child to me, even when your hair
is grey."

Some of the letters, to which Miss Chataway refers in these
reminiscences, I am enabled, through her kindness, to give below:--

Christ Church, Oxford, _October_ 13, 1875.

My dear Gertrude,--I never give birthday _presents_,
but you see I _do_ sometimes write a birthday
_letter_: so, as I've just arrived here, I am writing
this to wish you many and many a happy return of your
birthday to-morrow. I will drink your health, if only I can
remember, and if you don't mind--but perhaps you object? You
see, if I were to sit by you at breakfast, and to drink your
tea, you wouldn't like _that_, would you? You would say
"Boo! hoo! Here's Mr. Dodgson's drunk all my tea, and I
haven't got any left!" So I am very much afraid, next time
Sybil looks for you, she'll find you sitting by the sad
sea-wave, and crying "Boo! hoo! Here's Mr. Dodgson has drunk
my health, and I haven't got any left!" And how it will
puzzle Dr. Maund, when he is sent for to see you! "My dear
Madam, I'm very sorry to say your little girl has got _no
health at all_! I never saw such a thing in my life!"
"Oh, I can easily explain it!" your mother will say. "You
see she would go and make friends with a strange gentleman,
and yesterday he drank her health!" "Well, Mrs. Chataway,"
he will say, "the only way to cure her is to wait till his
next birthday, and then for _her_ to drink _his_
health."

And then we shall have changed healths. I wonder how you'll
like mine! Oh, Gertrude, I wish you wouldn't talk such
nonsense!...

Your loving friend,

Lewis Carroll.

Christ Church, Oxford, _Dec_. 9, 1875.

My dear Gertrude,--This really will _not_ do, you know,
sending one more kiss every time by post: the parcel gets so
heavy it is quite expensive. When the postman brought i