they found, much to their
delight, not only their motor-car, which had been shipped from New
York, but Monseigneur Charmiton and his sister, who were on the point
of leaving for their villa at Cap Ferrat. "And how did you like
Avignon?" were their first words. Although too polite to say "I told
you so," they now insisted the Riviera be given a fair trial. So,
chance and friendly counsel prevailing, the Stevenson party motored
east through lovely Provence, passing swiftly through Hyeres of
haunting memory, and on to Cannes, where they stopped the night; and
so to an hotel in Beaulieu, where Monseigneur's sister had engaged
rooms for them till a villa was found to their liking. And soon a
charming one at St. Jean-sur-Mer, a little village near Beaulieu, was
taken for the season.

The Villa Mes Rochers stood in a walled garden, which sloped gently to
a terrace on the edge of the sea--a place for tea in the afternoons
when the mistral was not blowing. Here they settled down for the
winter.

It was a pleasant, easy life. There were friends in Nice and Monte
Carlo; there was the daily motor ride; there were books to read,
letters to write, and recipes to be learned from the French and set
down in the famous cook book without which Mrs. Stevenson never
travelled. Here they lingered till April, and then set out in their
motor for London.

Their route again lay through Provence. They stopped at Arles, famous
alike for its beautiful women and its sausages. The beautiful women
were absent that day, but a sausage appeared at table and was
pronounced worthy of its niche in the sausage Hall of Fame. Further
along, in the Cevennes, they were enchanted with Le Puy, and the
lovely, lovely country where Louis had made his memorable journey with
Modestine. And so they went on north, by Channel steamer to Folkstone,
up through Kent, and into London by the Old Kent Road; then to
lodgings in Chelsea, where old friends called and old ties were
renewed.

After a month in London a house was taken in Chiddingfold, Surrey, to
be near "the dear Favershams," as Mrs. Stevenson always called them.
Mr. and Mrs. William Faversham, whom Mrs. Stevenson held in great
affection, owned The Old Manor in Chiddingfold, and they had found a
place for her near them--Fairfield, a charming old house in an
old-world garden, and, best of all, not five minutes' walk from The
Old Manor.

Life at Fairfield, except for constant rain, was delightful. Graham
Bal