the grammar, we
did not altogether neglect it, and a day comes to my mind when he was
assisting me in the homely task of washing the dishes in the pleasant
sunny kitchen where the Banksia rose hung its yellow curtain over the
windows. We recited Spanish conjugations while we worked, and he held
up a glass for my inspection, saying: "See how beautifully I have
polished it, Nellie. There is no doubt that I have missed my vocation.
I was born to be a butler." "No, Louis," I replied, "some day you are
to be a famous writer, and who knows but that I shall write about you,
as the humble Boswell wrote about Johnson, and tell the world how you
once wiped dishes for me in this old kitchen!"

For the long evenings of winter we had a game which Louis invented
expressly for our amusement. Lloyd Osbourne, then a boy of twelve, had
rather more than the usual boy's fondness for stories of the sea. It
will be remembered that it was to please this boy that Mr. Stevenson
afterwards wrote _Treasure Island_. Our game was to tell a continued
story, each person being limited to two minutes, taking up the tale at
the point where the one before him left off. We older ones had a
secret understanding that we were to keep Lloyd away from the sea, but
strive as we might, even though we left the hero stranded in the
middle of the Desert of Sahara, Lloyd never failed to have him sailing
the bounding main again before his allotted two minutes expired.

Many and long were the arguments that we had on the merits of our
respective countries, and I remember that Mr. Stevenson did not place
the sentiment of patriotism at the top of the list of human virtues,
for he believed that to concentrate one's affections and interest too
closely upon one small section of the earth's surface, simply on
account of the accident of birth, had a narrowing effect upon a man's
mental outlook and his human sympathies. He was a citizen of the world
in his capacity to understand the point of view of other men, of
whatsoever race, colour, or creed, and it was this catholicity of
spirit that made it possible for him to sit upon the benches of
Portsmouth Square in San Francisco and learn something of real life
from the human flotsam and jetsam cast up there by fate.

Of all the popular songs of America he liked _Marching Through
Georgia_ and _Dixie_ best. For _Home, Sweet Home_ he had no liking,
perhaps from having heard it during some moment of poignant
homesickness. He sai