into
people's hearts to wish for in the idleness of a sanatorium; and the
"Chateau des Morts" is still at the top of the town; and the fort and
the jetty are still at the foot, only there are now two jetties; and--I
am out of breath. (To be continued in our next.)

For myself, I have come famously through the journey; and as I have
written this letter (for the first time for ever so long) with ease and
even pleasure, I think my head must be better. I am still no good at
coming down hills or stairs; and my feet are more consistently cold than
is quite comfortable. But, these apart, I feel well; and in good spirits
all round.

I have written to Nice for letters, and hope to get them to-night.
Continue to address Poste Restante. Take care of yourselves.

This is my birthday, by the way--O, I said that before. Adieu.--Ever
your affectionate son,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO MRS. SITWELL,

_Menton, November 13, 1873._

I must pour out my disgust at the absence of a letter; my birthday
nearly gone, and devil a letter--I beg pardon. After all, now I think of
it, it is only a week since I left.

I have here the nicest room in Mentone. Let me explain. Ah! there's the
bell for the _table d'hote_. Now to see if there is anyone conversable
within these walls.

In the interval my letters have come; none from you, but one from Bob,
which both pained and pleased me. He cannot get on without me at all, he
writes; he finds that I have been the whole world for him; that he only
talked to other people in order that he might tell me afterwards about
the conversation. Should I--I really don't know quite what to feel; I am
so much astonished, and almost more astonished that he should have
expressed it than that he should feel it; he never would have _said_ it,
I know. I feel a strange sense of weight and responsibility.--Ever your
faithful friend, R. L. S.

TO MRS. SITWELL

In the latter part of this letter will be found the germ of the essay
_Ordered South_.

_Menton, Sunday [November 23, 1873]._

MY DEAR FRIEND,--I sat a long while up among the olive yards to-day at a
favourite corner, where one has a fair view down the valley and on to
the blue floor of the sea. I had a Horace with me, and read a little;
but Horace, when you try to read him fairly under the open heaven,
sounds urban, and you find something of the escaped townsman in his
descriptions of the country, just as somebody said tha