ing he
had not only lost sight of his surroundings, but had actually become in
action, as in imagination, the creature of his pen.

His "studies" were always cheery, pleasant rooms, and always, like
himself, the personification of neatness and tidiness. On the shelf of
his writing table were many dainty and useful ornaments, gifts from his
friends or members of his family, and always, a vase of bright and fresh
flowers. The first study that I remember is the one in our Devonshire
Terrace home, a pretty room, with steps leading directly into the garden
from it, and with an extra baize door to keep out all sounds and noise.
The study at Tavistock House was more elaborate; a fine large room,
opening into the drawing-room by means of sliding doors. When the rooms
were thrown together they gave my father a promenade of considerable
length for the constant indoor walking which formed a favorite recreation
for him after a hard day's writing.

At "Gad's Hill" he first made a study from one of the large spare
sleeping rooms of the house, as the windows there overlooked a beautiful
and favorite view of his. His writing table was always placed near a
window looking out into the open world which he loved so keenly.
Afterwards he occupied for years a smaller room overlooking the back
garden and a pretty meadow, but this he eventually turned into a
miniature billiard room, and then established himself, finally, in the
room on the right side of the entrance hall facing the front garden. It
is this room which Mr. Luke Fildes, the great artist and our own esteemed
friend, made famous in his picture "The Empty Chair," which he sketched
for "The Graphic" after my father's death. The writing table, the
ornaments, the huge waste paper basket, which "the master" had made for
his own use, are all there, and, alas, the empty chair!

That he was always in earnest, that he lived with his creations, that
their joys and sorrows were his joys and sorrows, that at times his
anguish, both of body and spirit, was poignant and heart-breaking, I
know. His interest in and love for his characters were intense as his
nature, and is shown nowhere more strongly than in his sufferings during
his portrayal of the short life of "Little Nell," like a father he
mourned for his little girl--the child of his brain--and he writes: "I
am, for the time, nearly dead with work and grief for the loss of my
child." Again he writes of her: "You can't imagine (gra