於是，我給孩子們講道，在追求那個精靈般的女子七年的時間裏，我時而充滿希望，時而又失望不已，然而始終不渝。我盡量以孩子們能理解的程度，向他們解釋少女身上的羞怯、敏感與回絕——當我突然轉向艾麗絲時，第一個艾麗絲的靈魂在小艾麗絲的眼裏活生生地出現了，以至於我有些懷疑是？站在我的麵前。而當我定睛看去時，兩個孩子在我的視野中漸漸地變得模糊，越來越遠，直到消失，隻在最遠的地方剩下哀傷的麵孔。盡管她們什麽也沒說，但我仿佛聽到了他們的話：“我們不是艾麗絲的孩子，不是你的孩子，我們也不是孩子。艾麗絲的孩子叫巴爾曼爸爸。我們什麽也不是，連夢幻都不是。我們隻是可能存在的人物，在真實存在之前，我們必須要遺忘河邊苦苦等上數百萬年，然後才有一個名字。”——我突然驚醒，發現自己靜靜地坐在我的輪椅上。原來，我在那裏睡著了，忠誠的布裏吉特還守在我身邊，但是約翰（或者詹姆斯）永遠失去了蹤影。
Children love to listen to stories about their elders， when they were children； to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle or great-aunt， whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field， who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene—so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country—of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall， the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts； till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead， with no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother’s looks， too tender to be called upbraiding.