One more story of my childhood, and then I shall have to write "Finis" to what to me is so delightful--the shutting of one's eyes in the twilight and the wandering back into the past with the many near and dear friends--some now scattered far and wide, others gone into the "weird unknown." Gone, but ever present in the loving memories of friends. Not very far away from Wadham College (in my remembrance) was a road leading to "The Parks"; this was also a very nice walk, and the hedges, when I was a small girl, were full of "ragged robin," wild roses, and other field flowers. Yellow butterflies and, sometimes, "peacock" butterflies, could also be found there. So, to the mind of eight years old, it was a "happy hunting ground" for "eyes that could see and look for things," and my pockets were generally filled with great treasures on returning--which treasures, alas! Mary Pearson always dubbed "Miss Ducky's aggravating rubbish." Now father had a great friend living near Park Crescent, and one of the bonds of sympathy (and a great one it was) between father, Mr. Dodgson, and the little old gentleman, was mathematics. This friend, whose name I have forgotten, lived in one of a row of houses at the top of Park Crescent, and many were the times we all three took this particular walk together to see the old scholar. My delight was resting in the pleasant little parlour of the housekeeper, into whose charge I was always given. She had very beady black eyes, a bunch of keys at her waist, and a most wonderful cap with bouquets of flowers intermixed with lace at each of her ears, and funny little grey curls and combs (like those of the present day) to fasten them back. I always was most polite to her and put on my very best manners. To me she was a most potential personage, and her coltsfoot wine and old-fashioned rock cakes, with which she always regaled me with no sparing hand, were so delicious! Nowhere else did these particular dainties seem to me so good. Perhaps hunger (which is always the best sauce) had something to do with it; but I know I munched the cakes and gazed intently at the swaying grasses and flowers on her head, as she told me that she made all the cakes herself, and also could sometimes make, when little girls were "extra good," "almond toffee" of the most appetising description. [Illustration: 56. THE WALKING STICK OF DESTINY. Ch. 6. Hush! The Baron slumbers! Two men with stealthy steps are removing his strong-box.[2] It is very heavy and their knees tremble, partly with the weight, partly with fear. He snores and they both start; the box rattles, not a moment is to be lost; they hasten from the room. It was very, very hard to get the box out of the window but they did it at last; though not without making noise enough to waken ten ordinary sleepers: the Baron, luckily for them, was an _extra_ordinary sleeper. [2] Of it's contents, as afterwards appears were very small. vide page 27, note (1).