ent, which only made it the more pleasing to my ear. She is heart and
soul devoted to her husband, proud of his achievements, and her delight
is the consciousness of substantially aiding him in his enterprises.

They then had with them a boy of eleven or twelve, Samuel Lloyd Osbourne,
to be much referred to later (a son of Mrs Stevenson by a former
marriage), whose delight was to draw the oddest, but perhaps half
intentional or unintentional caricatures, funny, in some cases, beyond
expression. His room was designated the picture-gallery, and on entering
I could scarce refrain from bursting into laughter, even at the general
effect, and, noticing this, and that I was putting some restraint on
myself out of respect for the host's feelings, Stevenson said to me with
a sly wink and a gentle dig in the ribs, "It's laugh and be thankful
here." On Lloyd's account simple engraving materials, types, and a small
printing-press had been procured; and it was Stevenson's delight to make
funny poems, stories, and morals for the engravings executed, and all
would be duly printed together. Stevenson's thorough enjoyment of the
picture-gallery, and his goodness to Lloyd, becoming himself a very boy
for the nonce, were delightful to witness and in degree to share.
Wherever they were--at Braemar, in Edinburgh, at Davos Platz, or even at
Silverado--the engraving and printing went on. The mention of the
picture-gallery suggests that it was out of his interest in the colour-
drawing and the picture-gallery that his first published story, _Treasure
Island_, grew, as we shall see.

I have some copies of the rude printing-press productions, inexpressibly
quaint, grotesque, a kind of literary horse-play, yet with a certain
squint-eyed, sprawling genius in it, and innocent childish Rabelaisian
mirth of a sort. At all events I cannot look at the slight memorials of
that time, which I still possess, without laughing afresh till my eyes
are dewy. Stevenson, as I understood, began _Treasure Island_ more to
entertain Lloyd Osbourne than anything else; the chapters being regularly
read to the family circle as they were written, and with scarcely a
purpose beyond. The lad became Stevenson's trusted companion and
collaborator--clearly with a touch of genius.

I have before me as I write some of these funny momentoes of that time,
carefully kept, often looked at. One of them is, "_The Black Canyon_;
_or_, _Wild Adventures in the Far West_: a Ta