gh more clumsy, I seem to have been freer and more
plucky: this is a lesson I have taken to heart. I have got a jolly new
name for my old story. I am going to call it _A Country Dance_; the two
heroes keep changing places, you know; and the chapter where the most of
this changing goes on is to be called "Up the middle, down the middle."
It will be in six or (perhaps) seven chapters. I have never worked
harder in my life than these last four days. If I can only keep it up.

_Saturday._--Yesterday, Leslie Stephen, who was down here to lecture,
called on me and took me up to see a poor fellow, a sort of poet who
writes for him, and who has been eighteen months in our infirmary, and
may be, for all I know, eighteen months more. It was very sad to see him
there, in a little room with two beds, and a couple of sick children in
the other bed; a girl came in to visit the children, and played dominoes
on the counterpane with them; the gas flared and crackled, the fire
burned in a dull economical way; Stephen and I sat on a couple of
chairs, and the poor fellow sat up in his bed with his hair and beard
all tangled, and talked as cheerfully as if he had been in a King's
palace, or the great King's palace of the blue air. He has taught
himself two languages since he has been lying there. I shall try to be
of use to him.

We have had two beautiful spring days, mild as milk, windy withal, and
the sun hot. I dreamed last night I was walking by moonlight round the
place where the scene of my story is laid; it was all so quiet and
sweet, and the blackbirds were singing as if it was day; it made my
heart very cool and happy.--Ever yours,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

_[Edinburgh] February 8, 1875._

MY DEAR COLVIN,--Forgive my bothering you. Here is the proof of my
second _Knox_. Glance it over, like a good fellow, and if there's
anything very flagrant send it to me marked. I have no confidence in
myself; I feel such an ass. What have I been doing? As near as I can
calculate, nothing. And yet I have worked all this month from three to
five hours a day, that is to say, from one to three hours more than my
doctor allows me; positively no result.

No, I can write no article just now; I am _pioching_, like a madman, at
my stories, and can make nothing of them; my simplicity is tame and
dull--my passion tinsel, boyish, hysterical. Never mind--ten years
hence, if I live, I shall have learned, so help me