ressions than those
of which I speak seem to me to give insufficient prominence to the
gaiety of Stevenson. It was his cardinal quality in those early
days. A childlike mirth leaped and danced in him; he seemed to skip
the hills of life. He was simply bubbling with quips and jest; his
inherent earnestness or passion about abstract things was
incessantly relieved by jocosity; and when he had built one of his
intellectual castles in the sand, a wave of humor was certain to
sweep in and destroy it. I can not, for the life of me, recall any
of his jokes; and written down in cold blood, they might not seem
funny if I did. They were not wit so much as humanity, the
many-sided outlook upon life. I am anxious that his laughter-loving
mood should not be forgotten, because later on it was partly
quenched by ill health, responsibility and the advance of years. He
was often, in the old days, excessively, delightfully silly--silly
with the silliness of an inspired schoolboy; I am afraid our
laughter sometimes sounded ill in the ears of age.

* * * * *

A visit to Scotland and the elders capitulated, apologized, and asked
for quarter. So delighted was Thomas Stevenson with Lloyd Osbourne that
he made the boy his chief heir, and declared in the presence of Robert
Louis that he only regretted that his own son was never half so likely a
lad. To which Robert Louis made reply, "Genius always skips one
generation."

Health had come to Robert Louis in a degree he had never before known.
He also had dignity and a precision such as his parents and kinsmen had
despaired of seeing in one so physically and mentally vacillating.

Stevenson was once asked by a mousing astrologer to state the date of
his birth. Robert Louis looked at his wife soberly and slowly answered,
"May Tenth, Eighteen Hundred Eighty." And not even a smile crossed the
countenance of either. Each understood.

That the nature of Stevenson was buoyed up, spiritualized, encouraged
and given strength by his marriage, no quibbler has ever breathed the
ghost of a doubt. His wife supplied him the mothering care that gave his
spirit wing. He loved her children as his own, and they reciprocated the
affection in a way that embalms their names in amber forevermore.

When Robert Louis, after a hemorrhage, sat propped up in bed, forbidden
to speak, he wrote on a pad with pencil: "Mr. Dumble