MY DEAR FATHER,—. We grow, every time we see it, more delighted with our house. It is five miles out of Marseilles, in a lovely spot, among lovely wooded and cliffy hills—most mountainous in line—far lovelier, to my eyes, than any Alps. To-day we have been out inventorying; and though a mistral blew, it was delightful in an open cab, and our house with the windows open was heavenly, soft, dry, sunny, southern. I fear there are fleas—it is called Campagne Defli—and I look forward to tons of insecticide being employed. I have had to write a letter to the _New York Tribune_ and the _Athenæum_. Payn was accused of stealing my stories! I think I have put things handsomely for him. Just got a servant! ! !—Ever affectionate son, R. L. STEVENSON. Our servant is a Muckle Hash of a Weedy! TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON _Campagne Defli_, _St. Marcel_, _Banlieue de Marseille_, _November_ 13, 1882. MY DEAR MOTHER,—Your delightful letters duly arrived this morning. They were the only good feature of the day, which was not a success. Fanny was in bed—she begged I would not split upon her, she felt so guilty; but as I believe she is better this evening, and has a good chance to be right again in a day or two, I will disregard her orders. I do not go back, but do not go forward—or not much. It is, in one way, miserable—for I can do no work; a very little wood-cutting, the newspapers, and a note about every two days to write, completely exhausts my surplus energy; even Patience I have to cultivate with parsimony. I see, if I could only get to work, that we could live here with comfort, almost with luxury. Even as it is, we should be able to get through a considerable time of idleness. I like the place immensely, though I have seen so little of it—I have only been once outside the gate since I was here! It puts me in mind of a summer at Prestonpans and a sickly child you once told me of. Thirty-two years now finished! My twenty-ninth was in San Francisco, I remember—rather a bleak birthday. The twenty-eighth was not much better; but the rest have been usually pleasant days in pleasant circumstances. Love to you and to my father and to Cummy. From me and Fanny and Wogg. R. L. S. TO CHARLES BAXTER _Grand Hotel_, _Nice_, 12_th_ _January_ ’83.