From the shade of the porch he peeped into the dining-room window, and had the satisfaction of seeing his friend creep under the dinner-table, while the maid returned with the message that Sir Edward Burne-Jones was not at home. I think Joe’s familiar back was quickly recognised as he walked, in mock dignity, down the garden path, and he was not sent empty away. Of course, the practical jokes of which he shared the invention with his good friend J. L. Toole--a master of the craft--were the most cunningly devised. He has related the choicest in _Eminent Victorians_, but I could tell of many a family laugh over them, and “One more Tooler, father, before we go to bed,” was a common request. One of the favourite stories was told of him when travelling down with Joe to the beautiful old moated house at Ightham, which our American friends, General and Mrs. Palmer, had made their English home. Stopping at a wayside station above which a lordly mansion stood among the trees, Toole beckoned a porter and, in the gibberish that he used so glibly at these moments, pretended to utter the name of its owner. “Oh, you mean Mr. So-and-So,” said the porter. “Of course--I said so!” retorted the shameless comedian. “Well, here’s half a crown. When the train’s off, run up to the house and say ‘we shall be seven to dinner and the game will follow.’” The whistle went as the porter, holding on to the door, enquired: “Who shall I say, Sir?” But the train moved on and Toole returned to the reading of his paper, leaving a gaping man on the platform. This same Ightham Mote was the scene of many of our happiest hours. Its charming hostess was a dear friend whose rare gifts of sympathy and true hospitality enabled her not only to attract to her house the brightest of spirits, but also to draw from them their best. Children, too, to whom she was a fairy godmother, were welcome as friends in their own right. Our daughter and younger son were specially dear to her in their different ways, and many was the grave, childish saying of the latter that she would repeat to the proud father, though perhaps the one he oftenest told himself was said to Alma Tadema when the five-year-old boy remarked that he preferred a gas to a coal fire, because the first went out when _you_ liked, and the latter when _it_ liked. Joe was appreciated of all children and always won their favour easily; but I remember one little lady administering a severe rebuff to him when, after many lures, he said at last: “Well, I don’t care whether you come or not!” to which she replied: “Oh, yes, you do!”