Ruskin and my father were great friends, and several times the latter stayed at Brantwood. On his first visit he had been touring in the English Lakes, and having a delightful invitation from Ruskin, he gladly accepted; but there was no mention of my mother, and consequently, rather than suggest that she should join him, it was arranged that she and my small sister—then about eight—should go to the neighbouring hotel. That night Ruskin asked my father whether he liked tea or coffee before he got up. “A cup of tea,” he replied. “Why don’t you choose coffee?” “Well, to tell the truth, I have lived so much abroad that I don’t fancy English coffee, it is generally so badly made.” His host said nothing. The next morning my father was awakened and a strong smell of coffee permeated the room, and turning to the servant, he asked, “Is that my cup of tea?” “No, sir, it is Mr. Ruskin’s coffee.” “Mr. Ruskin’s coffee! What do you mean?” “The master was up early, he roasted the coffee himself, he ground the coffee himself, and he made the coffee himself, and he hopes you will like it.” So much for Ruskin.... During the course of the day it slipped out that my mother was at the hotel. Ruskin was furious. “How could you be so unfriendly?” he said. “Well, you see my little girl is also with her,” my father replied, “and as we are on our way to Scotland they could not very well go back to London, and I really could not ask you to house so many.” Ruskin did not answer, but rang the bell. When the servant arrived he proceeded: “Get such-and-such a room ready, and see the sheets are properly aired, for a lady and little girl are coming to stop. Tell the coachman I want the carriage at such-and-such an hour.” Then turning to my father he remarked: “At that time, Dr. Harley, you can amuse yourself. I am going to fetch your wife.” Ruskin loved children. He and my sister Olga became tremendous friends; they used to walk out together hand in hand for hours and hours, while he explained to her about beetles, flowers, and birds, and all things in Nature which appealed to him. Sir Joseph Swan told me an incident in Carlyle’s life which will be new to worshippers of the Sage. “So many stories,” he said, “are told of Carlyle which show him as a terribly bearish person that I take pleasure in finding in this incident that there was another and kindlier side of his nature.” It related to a young friend some thirty years before, now a middle-aged and distinguished man: The youth was a divinity student in a Birmingham College, preparing himself for the duties of a dissenting minister. He used to make occasional visits to London, and during one of these he haunted the neighbourhood of Chelsea in the hope of meeting Carlyle, then the subject of his hero-worship. Carlyle was “shadowed,” his goings out and his comings in were watched for days together, in the far-off hope that some moment would “turn up” which would bring them into contact.