Then I told how for seven long years， in hope sometimes， sometimes in despair， yet persisting ever， I courted the fair Alice W. and， as much as children could understand， I explained to them what coyness， and difficulty， and denial meant in madness — when suddenly turning to Alice， the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of representment， that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me， or whose that bright hair was； and while stood gazing， both the children gradually grew fainter to my view， receding， and still receding， fill nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the utter most distance， which， without speech， strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech： "We are not of Alice， nor of thee， nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Barman father. We are nothing； less than nothing， and dreams. We are only what might have been， and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence， and a name" and immediately awaking， I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair， where I had fallen asleep， with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side — but John L.(or James Elia) was gone forever.
孩子们都爱听长辈们年少时的故事，他们会对素未谋面的叔公或老祖母展开想象。在一个夜晚，正是带着这种精神，我的孩子们围在我身边，听他们老祖母菲尔德的故事。菲尔德住在诺福克郡的一所大房子里（要比我们现在住的大一百倍）。那是一个发生过悲剧的地方——至少当地人都这样认为。孩子们最近从《林中的孩子》这首民谣中知道了诺福克郡大房子里的故事。实际上，孩子们、凶残叔叔和知更鸟的整个故事，竟然被雕刻在那所房子客厅的壁炉架上，直到一个愚蠢而又富有的人把它变成一块现代的大理石。故事讲到这里时，艾丽丝脸上表现出酷似她亲爱的母亲的神情，温柔得让人不忍心再去责难。