f her beloved California.

While there she had a pleasant meeting with Louis's old friend Jules
Simoneau, of which she writes to her husband:

"At last your dear old Simoneau came to see me. He was laden with
flowers, and was dressed in a flannel shirt thrown open at the neck
and his trousers thrust in his boots. I saw him from the window and
ran out and kissed him. He was greatly pleased and talked a long time
about you. I told him you were going to send him the books, and he
almost cried at that. The following day he and his wife spent the
whole time in the woods searching for roots and leaves that are,
according to the Indians, a certain cure for lung disease where there
is hemorrhage. I have a great packet of them; one dose is divided off,
and I am to divide the rest in the same way. A dose means enough to
make a gallon of tea, of which you are to drink when so inclined.
Simoneau said: 'I thought you might be ashamed of a rough old
eccentric fellow like me.' I expressed my feeling in regard to him, to
which he replied: 'And yet I am rough and eccentric; you say I was
kind; I fear that to be kind is to be eccentric.'"

Having secured the _Casco_, she telegraphed to her anxiously waiting
husband for a positive decision, to which he sent back an instant and
joyous "Yes."

It is now thirty years since Robert Louis Stevenson passed that winter
in the snows of the Adirondacks, and the little logging-camp, as he
knew it, has grown into a great sanatorium, but his spirit still seems
to hover over the place, and those who seek the healing of its crystal
air have set up a shrine and made of him a sort of patron saint. The
Baker Cottage has been converted by the Stevenson Society into a
memorial museum, where many objects commemorative of him have been
collected. Among these are the woodcuts with which he amused himself
at Davos, and which were given to them by Lloyd Osbourne. Here Mr. and
Mrs. Baker, whose hair has been whitened by the snows of many winters
since the Stevenson days, receive the visitors who come to reverently
examine the relics left by the man who fought so bravely and so
successfully against the same insidious enemy with whom they
themselves are struggling. On the veranda, where, in that time so long
past, his slender figure might often have been seen walking up and
down, a beautiful bas-relief by Gutzon Borglum, representing him in
the fur cap and coat and the boots that he was so boyishly proud of,
ha