k man was compelled to spend all his
waking time in the sitting-room, where his confinement was made the
more penitential by the absence of books. It happened that the only
books in the house were two volumes of Voltaire, and these were taken
from the younger pair one dreary Sunday by their stern parents as not
proper "Sabba'-day" reading.

Thrown entirely on their own resources, they decided to write stories
and read them to each other. These tales, coloured by the
surroundings, were of a sombre cast. Here _Thrawn Janet_ was begun. In
a preface, written years later, Mrs. Stevenson gives a graphic
description of the first writing of this gloomy but powerful story.

"That evening is as clear in my memory as though it were
yesterday--the dim light of our one candle, with the acrid smell of
the wick that we had forgotten to snuff, the shadows in the corners of
the 'lang, laigh, mirk chamber, perishing cauld,' the driving rain on
the roof close above our heads, and the gusts of wind that shook our
windows. The very sound of the names, 'Murdock Soulis, the Hangin'
Shaw in the beild of the Black Hill, Balweary in the vale of Dule,'
sent a 'cauld grue' along my bones. By the time the tale was finished
my husband had fairly frightened himself, and we crept down the stairs
clinging hand in hand like two scared children."

"Weather wet, bad weather, still wet, afraid to go out, pouring rain,"
appeared almost constantly in Mrs. Thomas Stevenson's diary, and
though Stevenson, whether inspired by home scenes or driven in upon
himself for relief from the outer dreariness, did some of his best
work here, it became clear that a more favourable spot must be sought.
From Pitlochry they went to Braemar, but that place proved to be no
improvement. Mrs. Stevenson writes of it in her preface to _Treasure
Island_:

"It was a season of rain and chill weather that we spent in the
cottage of the late Miss McGregor, though the townspeople called the
cold, steady, penetrating drizzle 'just misting,' In Scotland a fair
day appears to mean fairly wet. 'It is quite fair now,' they will say,
when you can hardly distinguish the houses across the street. Queen
Victoria, who had endeared herself greatly to the folk in the
neighborhood, showed a true Scotch spirit in her indifference to the
weather. Her Majesty was in the habit of driving out to take tea in
the open, accompanied by a couple of ladies-in-waiting. The road to
Balmoral ran not far behin