of men. This year there were
three new arrivals, Americans, a Mrs. Osbourne and her young son and
daughter. Their home in California had been broken up and the mother had
come to Grez to paint for the summer.

Those who had been there for a number of years, R.L.S. among them,
looked on the newcomers as intruders and did not hesitate to say so
among themselves. Before the summer was over, however, they were
obliged to confess that the newcomers had added to the charms of Grez,
and Louis found in Mrs. Osbourne another companion to add to his rapidly
growing list.

When the artists scattered in the autumn and he returned to Edinburgh
and Mrs. Osbourne to California, he carried with him the hope that some
time in the future they should be married.

For the next three years he worked hard. He published numerous essays in
the _Cornhill Magazine_ and his first short stories, "A Lodging for the
Night," "Will O' the Mill," and the "New Arabian Nights." These were
followed by his first books of travel, "An Inland Voyage," giving a
faithful account of the adventures of the _Arethusa_ and the
_Cigarette_, and "Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes."

When the latter was published, Mr. Walter Crane made an illustration for
it showing R.L.S. under a tree in the foreground in his sleeping-bag,
smoking, while Modestine contentedly crops grass by his side. Above him
winds the path he is to take on his journey, encouraging Modestine with
her burden to a livelier pace with his goad; receiving the blessing of
the good monks at the Monastery of Our Lady of the Snows; stopping for a
bite and sup at a wayside tavern; conversing with a fellow traveller by
the way; and finally disappearing with the sunset over the brow of the
hill.

Some time previous to all this he had written in a letter: "Leslie
Stephen, who was down here to lecture, called on me, and took me up to
see a poor fellow, a poet who writes for him, and who has been eighteen
months in our Infirmary, and may be for all I know eighteen months more.
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 of blue air."

This was William Ernest Henley, and his brave determination to live and
work, though he knew he must ever remain in a maimed condition, roused
Stevenson's sincere admiration. With his usual impetuous generosity, he
brought him books and othe