The pictures themselves were as funny as could be, and the Harry Allyn of those days was wonderfully like the Albert Allyn of these; so that a council was held on the spot, and the resolution carried that they would leave a little note on Mr. Carroll's table, humbly begging for one of the pictures, that they might have the pleasure of showing them to interested parties at Windsor.
The inspection of the photographs once over, the little party settled themselves to “taking the little sitting-room in,” as they said, and there was little, you may be sure, that escaped them.
The curious old fire-irons were noted, the subjects of the pictures on the walls, the books on the shelves, and a remarkable paper-knife and quaint old inkstand upon the table.
Marie-Celeste, to whom this visit meant more than to Harold and Dorothy, even made so bold as to glance through an intervening portière to the bachelor bedroom beyond; and yet you must know that there was not a vestige of prying curiosity in this investigating mood of hers. The next thing, and sometimes a better thing than knowing your favorite author, is to know how and where he lives; and it was a matter of supreme delight to Marie-Celeste that henceforth when she should open Lewis Carroll's books she should be able to picture him working away here in his study, and just as he really looked, too, for by chance or accidents full-length photograph stood on the mantel, which Dorothy, from her visita few years before, was able to pronounce an excellent likeness, and very characteristic.
“I would like to be able to say I had sat exactly where 'Alice' was written,” said Marie-Celeste, slipping into the chair at the writing-table. “Do you think I could honestly?”
“Well, both table and chair look old enough,” Dorothy considerately replied; “but I don't believe books like those are written much in regular places at all. It seems as though 'Alice' must at least have been made up out on the river, even if there were not three little pairs of childish hands to steer and guide the boat, as the verses at the beginning would have us believe.”
“Oh, but I do believe there were, Miss Dorothy!” said Marie-Celeste warmly; “don't you remember it says,