cent trips at Golden
Gate Park, and that nothing would ever break him of it. When they left
Honolulu for Samoa they had difficulty in getting him on board the
steamer, for although there was a belt and tackle to hoist him up,
they could not drag him to it. One man--then two--then finally six men
were hauling at him, while the ship waited, with all passengers on
board and surveying the scene with intense amusement. The captain
suddenly shouted through a megaphone: "Pull him the other way!" They
did so and he immediately backed right up to the tackle and was hauled
on deck amid the plaudits of the multitude. At Samoa he was a great
pet; the native girls loved him and took him with them when they went
to cut alfalfa for the cows. They made a pretty picture coming through
the forest--the girls in leaves and flowers and Dicky a walking
mountain of green, with only his long ears sticking out and his bright
eyes gleaming through the foliage.

Honolulu brought back to Mrs. Stevenson many poignant memories of
other days, of which she wrote to her mother-in-law in these words:

"As you suppose, this has been a sad season with me. People say that
one gets used to things with time, but I do not believe it. Every day
seems harder for me to bear. I say to myself many comforting things,
but even though I believe them they do not comfort me. Everything here
reminds me of Louis, and I do not think there is one moment that I am
not thinking of him. People say: 'What a comfort his great name must
be to you!' It is a pride to me, but not a comfort; I would rather
have my Louis here with me, poor and unknown. And I do not like to
have my friends offer me their sympathy--only you and one or two who
loved him for what he was and not for what he did.... As to his
Christianity his life and work show what he was. I _know_ that
whether or not he always succeeded in living up to his intentions, he
was a true follower of Christ, a real Christian, and not many have
come as close as he; and I believe that not many have tried as
honestly and earnestly. In this place everything reminds me of him,
and I feel that I must see him. I cannot believe that all these months
have passed since he left us. Perhaps the whole time will not seem so
long until we meet again. It gives me a sharp shock when I hear him
spoken of as dead. He is not dead to me--I cannot think it nor feel
it. He is only waiting, I seem to feel, somewhere near at hand."

After a winter s