n up again, and Stevenson
explains the course of the story to his father, who had taken the
deepest interest in it since they visited together the scene of the
Appin murder.

[_Skerryvore, Bournemouth, January 25, 1886._]

MY DEAR FATHER,--Many thanks for a letter quite like yourself. I quite
agree with you, and had already planned a scene of religion in
_Balfour_; the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge
furnishes me with a catechist whom I shall try to make the man. I have
another catechist, the blind, pistol-carrying highway robber, whom I
have transferred from the Long Island to Mull. I find it a most
picturesque period, and wonder Scott let it escape. The _Covenant_ is
lost on one of the Tarrans, and David is cast on Earraid, where (being
from inland) he is nearly starved before he finds out the island is
tidal; then he crosses Mull to Toronsay, meeting the blind catechist by
the way; then crosses Morven from Kinlochaline to Kingairloch, where he
stays the night with the good catechist; that is where I am; next day he
is to be put ashore in Appin, and be present at Colin Campbell's death.
To-day I rest, being a little run down. Strange how liable we are to
brain fag in this scooty family! But as far as I have got, all but the
last chapter, I think David is on his feet, and (to my mind) a far
better story and far sounder at heart than _Treasure Island_.

I have no earthly news, living entirely in my story, and only coming out
of it to play patience. The Shelleys are gone; the Taylors kinder than
can be imagined. The other day, Lady Taylor drove over and called on
me; she is a delightful old lady, and great fun. I mentioned a story
about the Duchess of Wellington--which I had heard Sir Henry tell; and
though he was very tired, he looked it up and copied it out for me in
his own hand.--Your most affectionate son,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO C. W. STODDARD

_Skerryvore, Bournemouth, Feb. 13th, 1886._

MY DEAR STODDARD,--I am a dreadful character; but, you see, I have at
last taken pen in hand; how long I may hold it, God knows. This is
already my sixth letter to-day, and I have many more waiting; and my
wrist gives me a jog on the subject of scrivener's cramp, which is not
encouraging.

I gather you were a little down in the jaw when you wrote your last. I
am as usual pretty cheerful, but not very strong. I stay in the house
all winter, which is base; but, as you