it shone upon my childhood--
Fair shine the day on the house with open door;
Birds come and cry there, and twitter in the chimney--
But I go for ever and come again no more."

CHAPTER X--A SAMOAN MEMORIAL OF R. L. STEVENSON

A few weeks after his death, the mail from Samoa, brought to Stevenson's
friends, myself among the number, a precious, if pathetic, memorial of
the master. It is in the form of "A Letter to Mr Stevenson's Friends,"
by his stepson, Mr Lloyd Osbourne, and bears the motto from Walt Whitman,
"I have been waiting for you these many years. Give me your hand and
welcome." Mr Osbourne gives a full account of the last hours.

"He wrote hard all that morning of the last day; his half-finished
book, _Hermiston_, he judged the best he had ever written, and the
sense of successful effort made him buoyant and happy as nothing else
could. In the afternoon the mail fell to be answered--not business
correspondence, for this was left till later--but replies to the long,
kindly letters of distant friends received but two days since, and
still bright in memory. At sunset he came downstairs; rallied his
wife about the forebodings she could not shake off; talked of a
lecturing tour to America that he was eager to make, 'as he was now so
well'; and played a game of cards with her to drive away her
melancholy. He said he was hungry; begged her assistance to help him
make a salad for the evening meal; and, to enhance the little feast he
brought up a bottle of old Burgundy from the cellar. He was helping
his wife on the verandah, and gaily talking, when suddenly he put both
hands to his head and cried out, 'What's that?' Then he asked
quickly, 'Do I look strange?' Even as he did so he fell on his knees
beside her. He was helped into the great hall, between his wife and
his body-servant, Sosimo, losing consciousness instantly as he lay
back in the armchair that had once been his grandfather's. Little
time was lost in bringing the doctors--Anderson of the man-of-war, and
his friend, Dr Funk. They looked at him and shook their heads; they
laboured strenuously, and left nothing undone. But he had passed the
bounds of human skill. He had grown so well and strong, that his
wasted lungs were unable to bear the stress of returning health."

Then 'tis told how the Rev. Mr Clarke came and prayed by him; and how,
soon after,