oes on, and a horrible story of a nurse which I think
almost too cruel to go on with: I wonder why my stories are always so
nasty.[18] I am still well, and in good spirits. I say, by the way, have
you any means of finding Madame Garschine's address. If you have,
communicate with me. I fear my last letter has been too late to catch
her at Franzensbad; and so I shall have to go without my visit
altogether, which would vex me.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO MRS. SITWELL

_[Barmouth, September 1874], Tuesday._

I wonder if you ever read Dickens' Christmas books? I don't know that I
would recommend you to read them, because they are too much perhaps. I
have only read two of them yet, and feel so good after them and would do
anything, yes and shall do everything, to make it a little better for
people. I wish I could lose no time; I want to go out and comfort some
one; I shall never listen to the nonsense they tell one about not giving
money--I _shall_ give money; not that I haven't done so always, but I
shall do it with a high hand now.

It is raining here; and I have been working at John Knox, and at the
horrid story I have in hand, and walking in the rain. Do you know this
story of mine is horrible; I only work at it by fits and starts, because
I feel as if it were a sort of crime against humanity--it is so cruel.

_Wednesday._--I saw such nice children again to-day; one little fellow
alone by the roadside, putting a stick into a spout of water and singing
to himself--so wrapt up that we had to poke him with our umbrellas to
attract his attention; and again, two solid, fleshly, grave,
double-chinned burgomasters in black, with black hats on 'em, riding
together in what they call, I think, a double perambulator. My father is
such fun here. He is always skipping about into the drawing-room, and
speaking to all the girls, and telling them God knows what about us all.
My mother and I are the old people who sit aloof, receive him as a sort
of prodigal when he comes back to us, and listen indulgently to what he
has to tell.

_Llandudno, Thursday._--A cold bleak place of stucco villas with wide
streets to let the wind in at you. A beautiful journey, however, coming
hither.

_Friday._--Seeley has taken my paper, which is, as I now think, not to
beat about the bush, bad. However, there are pretty things in it, I
fancy; we shall see what you shall say.

_Sunday._--I took my usual walk before turning in last