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HEN I first began to paint Mr. Gladstone, at Hawarden, Mrs. Drew would often invite me in the afternoons to visit with her the different places of interest in the neighbourhood. Her daughter, Dossie, the fair-haired child whose picture at that period was on a page of every illustrated newspaper in the kingdom, and beyond it, presented me to her pet black Pomeranian puppy, and together we would seek out her father, Canon Drew, in the midst of his books and papers, and beguile him into taking a walk in the gardens or the park.

It was natural that these walks should sometimes end at the Rectory, where the "Rector," Mr. Gladstone's familiar title in Hawarden, and Mrs. Gladstone, surrounded by their family of sturdy sons and a daughter, would welcome us to tea. The baby of the house was then about two years old. His brow was remarkable for a child, and the head resembled his grandfather's, even to the thin fringe of blond hair that hung and curled behind like the soft, gray locks of the old statesman. I could not help predicting a great career for him. He now lies, like his cousin William of Hawarden, among the brave youths who fell in the battle-fields of France.

Stephen Gladstone was more like his father than any of the members of the family. He was tall and powerfully