uice-gate opened, the whole garden just brimmed and ran
over with bird-songs.--Ever your faithful friend,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MRS. SITWELL

For a part of June Stevenson had come south, spending most of his
time in lodgings with me at Hampstead (where he got the idea for part
of his essay _Notes on the Movements of Young Children_) and making
his first appearance at the Savile Club. Trouble awaited him after
his return.

_[Swanston, June 1874], Wednesday._

News reaches me that Bob is laid down with diphtheria; and you know what
that means.

_Night._--I am glad to say that I have on the whole a good account of
Bob and I do hope he may pull through in spite of all. I went down and
saw the doctor; but it is not thought right that I should go in to see
him in case of contagion: you know it is a very contagious malady.

_Thursday._--It is curious how calm I am in such a case. I wait with
perfect composure for farther news; I can do nothing; why should I
disturb myself? And yet if things go wrong I shall be in a fine way I
can tell you.

How curiously we are built up into our false positions. The other day,
having toothache and the black dog on my back generally, I was rude to
one of the servants at the dinner-table. And nothing of course can be
more disgusting than for a man to speak harshly to a young woman who
will lose her place if she speak back to him; and of course I determined
to apologise. Well, do you know, it was perhaps four days before I found
courage enough, and I felt as red and ashamed as could be. Why? because
I had been rude? not a bit of it; because I was doing a thing that would
be called ridiculous in thus apologising. I did not know I had so much
respect of middle-class notions before; this is my right hand which I
must cut off. Hold the arm please: once--twice--thrice: the offensive
member is amputated: let us hope I shall never be such a cad any more as
to be ashamed of being a gentleman.

_Night._--I suppose I must have been more affected than I thought; at
least I found I could not work this morning and had to go out. The whole
garden was filled with a high westerly wind, coming straight out of the
hills and richly scented with furze--or whins, as we would say. The
trees were all in a tempest and roared like a heavy surf; the paths all
strewn with fallen apple-blossom and leaves. I got a quiet seat behind a
yew and went away into a meditation. I wa