rned back, went into the book-store,
and asked the young man in attendance, "Could I be allowed to take a copy
of the letter in the window?" He told me it was not, as I thought, an
original document, but the printed reproduction of a memorandum found
among the dead Stevenson's papers. "Then," said I, "can I not have
one--can I not buy one?" And the young man shook his head. "No; they are
not for sale." "Oh, I am sorry!" said I. "I would have given anything for
one." "Well," said he, in a grave voice, and with a grave smile, "they are
not, indeed, for sale; but have been printed for a particular purpose, and
one will be given to all lovers of Stevenson." He spoke in such a low,
reverent, sympathetic tone that I _knew his_ eyes must be full, and so I
would not look.

Next day I went to see _Mr. Doxey_ himself, who is a Stevenson enthusiast,
and has one window (the window of the crowd) devoted entirely to
Stevenson. All his works, all his editions--including the Edinburgh
Edition--are there; and he, with the greatest kindness, showed me the
treasures he had collected. In the first place, the number of portraits
was astonishing. Years and conditions and circumstances, all various and
changing; but the face--the face always the same. The eyes, wonderful in
their keenness, their interrogative, questioning, eager gaze; the looking
out, always looking out, always asking, looking ahead, far away into some
distant land not given to _les autres_ to perceive. That wonderful looking
out was the first thing that impressed me when I met Mr. Stevenson in
Sydney in '93. Unfortunately for us, he only stayed there a short time,
would not visit, was very difficult of access, not at all well, and when
he went seemed to disappear, not go. Mr. Doxey had pictures of him in
every possible phase--in turn-down collar, in no collar at all; his hair
long, short, and middling; in oils, in water-colour, in photos, in a
smoking-cap and Imperial; with a moustache, without a moustache; young,
youthful, dashing, Byronic; not so youthful, middle-aged; looking in
_this_ like a modern Manfred; in _that_ like an epitome of the fashions,
wearing a debonair demeanour and a _degage_ tie; as a boy, as a barrister;
on horseback, in a boat. There was a portrait taken by Mrs. Stevenson in
1885, and one lent by Virgil Williams; another, a water-colour, lent by
Miss O'Hara; and a wonderful study of his wonderful hands. Then he was
photographed in his home at Samoa, su