th, that one hears between the gusts only. I am
in excellent humour with myself, for I have worked hard and not
altogether fruitlessly; and I wished before I turned in just to tell you
that things were so. My dear friend, I feel so happy when I think that
you remember me kindly. I have been up to-night lecturing to a friend on
life and duties and what a man could do; a coal off the altar had been
laid on my lips, and I talked quite above my average, and hope I spread,
what you would wish to see spread, into one person's heart; and with a
new light upon it.

I shall tell you a story. Last Friday I went down to Portobello, in the
heavy rain, with an uneasy wind blowing _par rafales_ off the sea (or
"_en rafales_" should it be? or what?). As I got down near the beach a
poor woman, oldish, and seemingly, lately at least, respectable,
followed me and made signs. She was drenched to the skin, and looked
wretched below wretchedness. You know, I did not like to look back at
her; it seemed as if she might misunderstand and be terribly hurt and
slighted; so I stood at the end of the street--there was no one else
within sight in the wet--and lifted up my hand very high with some money
in it. I heard her steps draw heavily near behind me, and, when she was
near enough to see, I let the money fall in the mud and went off at my
best walk without ever turning round. There is nothing in the story; and
yet you will understand how much there is, if one chose to set it
forth. You see, she was so ugly; and you know there is something
terribly, miserably pathetic in a certain smile, a certain sodden aspect
of invitation on such faces. It is so terrible, that it is in a way
sacred; it means the outside of degradation and (what is worst of all in
life) false position. I hope you understand me rightly.--Ever your
faithful friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MRS. SITWELL

_[Edinburgh], Tuesday, October 14, 1873._

My father has returned in better health, and I am more delighted than I
can well tell you. The one trouble that I can see no way through is that
his health, or my mother's, should give way. To-night, as I was walking
along Princes Street, I heard the bugles sound the recall. I do not
think I had ever remarked it before; there is something of unspeakable
appeal in the cadence. I felt as if something yearningly cried to me out
of the darkness overhead to come thither and find rest; one felt as if
there must be w