hingly expresses it, 'a desolate
woman.'

Much was left to her in the love of relatives and friends, and in her
own bright spirit, which, while it recalled the happiness of the past,
never repined at the emptiness of the present; but so much of her heart
lay buried in her two graves that one dared not murmur, nay, one could
hardly fail to rejoice for her, when, early in May 1897, she too passed
into her rest, most deeply mourned by all who had so dearly loved her,
and not least by the little children who had held so warm a place in her
affections, and whose spontaneous offering of flowers so touched and
comforted the sad hearts of her sorrowing relatives.

In his mother's letters to her sister and to other members of her
family--so often kindly read to friends--one had almost as graphic an
account of Mr Stevenson's Samoan home as in the delightful volume of
_Vailima Letters_ itself. Gifted also with a fluent pen and a keen
interest in the details which make up life, the mother like the son
wrote charmingly; and one laughed, as one does in _The Vailima Letters_,
over such misfortunes as the raid of the little pigs among the young
corn; the more or less serious peccadilloes of the childlike Samoan
servants; and that crowning catastrophe, so comically described by Mr
Stevenson, when the carpenter's horse put its foot into a nest of
fourteen eggs, and 'made an omelette of all their hopes'!

Nothing could have, been more delightful or more amusing than that
unconventional sunny life to people who like the Stevensons were
perfectly happy among themselves, and, in spite of the often serious
anxieties and worries incident on their settling in the new home,
absolutely contented with their surroundings. The out-of-door existence,
the free, untrammelled life, was dear to all of them, and especially
good for Mr Stevenson; and far from the hurry and bustle of towns they
found, under the unclouded blue of the Samoan sky, the rest and the
peace their souls had longed for.

The climate worked wonders for Mr Stevenson, and it seemed hardly
possible to believe that the pale shadow of the Bournemouth days was the
active owner of Vailima, who himself worked untiringly in clearing the
scrub, and making the rank, tropical bush give place to the ordered
beauties of civilisation. Not only he but his wife cheerfully took a
turn in weeding, and, hot, tired, and with skins blistered by the
poisonous plants with which war had to be waged by ha