ithout accident; but I never had a more
wretched journey in my life. I could not settle to read anything; I
bought Darwin's last book in despair, for I knew I could generally read
Darwin, but it was a failure. However, the book served me in good stead;
for when a couple of children got in at Newcastle, I struck up a great
friendship with them on the strength of the illustrations. These two
children (a girl of nine and a boy of six) had never before travelled in
a railway, so that everything was a glory to them, and they were never
tired of watching the telegraph posts and trees and hedges go racing
past us to the tail of the train; and the girl I found quite entered
into the most daring personifications that I could make. A little way
on, about Alnmouth, they had their first sight of the sea; and it was
wonderful how loath they were to believe that what they saw was water;
indeed it was very still and grey and solid-looking under a sky to
match. It was worth the fare, yet a little farther on, to see the
delight of the girl when she passed into "another country," with the
black Tweed under our feet, crossed by the lamps of the passenger
bridge. I remember the first time I had gone into "another country,"
over the same river from the other side.

Bob was not at the station when I arrived; but a friend of his brought
me a letter; and he is to be in the first thing to-morrow. Do you know,
I think yesterday and the day before were the two happiest days of my
life? I would not have missed last month for eternity.--Ever yours,

R. L. S.

TO MRS. SITWELL

The paper on _Roads_ herein mentioned had been planned during walks
at Cockfield; was offered to and rejected by the Saturday Review and
ultimately accepted by Mr. Hamerton for the Portfolio; and was the
first regular or paid contribution of Stevenson to periodical
literature.

_17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, Saturday, September 6, 1873._

I have been to-day a very long walk with my father through some of the
most beautiful ways hereabouts; the day was cold with an iron, windy
sky, and only glorified now and then with autumn sunlight. For it is
fully autumn with us, with a blight already over the greens, and a keen
wind in the morning that makes one rather timid of one's tub when it
finds its way indoors.

I was out this evening to call on a friend, and, coming back through the
wet, crowded, lamp-lit streets, was singing after my own fashion