All during these years of suffering Stevenson wrote books which were, and still are, read by thousands of appreciative people. And these are not the kind of books that people read and forget at once. They are the books that can be read and enjoyed over and over again, and never seem to lose their charm. Besides “Treasure Island,” he wrote “Kidnapped,” “Travels with a Donkey,” “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” “A Child’s Garden of Verse,” “The Master of Ballantrae,” and a number of others of very high standard. At that time very little was known about Stevenson himself; how surprised his readers would have been had they known that the writer of such fascinating and cheerful books was a chronic invalid. One man who wrote a review of a book by Stevenson, said that the chief defect in the book was that the writer was too optimistic and far too cheerful. “This writer,” he said, “has evidently never truly known what suffering is, or he would not speak so complacently about its endurance.” When Stevenson read this criticism he laughed heartily and said it was one of the finest compliments that he had ever received. Of course he longed for health and occasionally he wrote a few lines which show how great that longing was. Once he wrote: “I have so many things to make life sweet to me, it seems a pity I cannot have that other thing, health. But I believe, for myself at least, whatever is, is best.” Often he made great fun of his sickness as though he was determined to laugh at it and not allow it to get the better of him. He wrote to a friend: “I am about knocked out of time now; a miserable, snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden, knee-jottering shadow and remains of a man.” Then he lapsed into the Scotch dialect he had known as a boy: “But we’ll no gie ower gist yet a bittie. We’ve seen waur, and Dod mem! it’s my belief that we’ll see better. I dinna ken ’at I’ve muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but gist here’s a guid fallowship, guid health, and the wale o’ guid fortune to yer bonnie sel’.” Still seeking health, Stevenson went to live on the island of Samoa. There he lived for several years and it is there that he is buried. It was a strange life for him and his wife at first, but the climate was good for him and no doubt prolonged his life. At first the Samoans did not know what to make of this stranger who came to live among them. They were puzzled and suspicious, but gradually as they came to know him better, they began to love him, until they looked upon him as their friend, whose wisdom they could always trust.