The first day, I forgot to mention, was like mid-winter for cold, and rained incessantly so hard that the livid white of our cold-pinched faces wore a sort of inflamed rash on the windward side. I am not a bit the worse of it, except fore-mentioned state of hands, a slight crick in my neck from the rain running down, and general stiffness from pulling, hauling, and tugging for dear life. We have got double weights at the guys, and hope to get it up like a shot. What fun you three must be having! I hope the cold don’t disagree with you.—I remain, my dear mother, your affectionate son, R. L. STEVENSON. TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON _Pulteney_, _Wick_, _Sunday_, _September_ 1868. MY DEAR MOTHER,—Another storm: wind higher, rain thicker: the wind still rising as the night closes in and the sea slowly rising along with it; it looks like a three days’ gale. Last week has been a blank one: always too much sea. I enjoyed myself very much last night at the R.’s. There was a little dancing, much singing and supper. Are you not well that you do not write? I haven’t heard from you for more than a fortnight. The wind fell yesterday and rose again to-day; it is a dreadful evening; but the wind is keeping the sea down as yet. Of course, nothing more has been done to the poles; and I can’t tell when I shall be able to leave, not for a fortnight yet, I fear, at the earliest, for the winds are persistent. Where’s Murra? Is Cummie struck dumb about the boots? I wish you would get somebody to write an interesting letter and say how you are, for you’re on the broad of your back I see. There hath arrived an inroad of farmers to-night; and I go to avoid them to M— if he’s disengaged, to the R.’s if not. * * * * * _Sunday_ (_later_).—Storm without: wind and rain: a confused mass of wind-driven rain-squalls, wind-ragged mist, foam, spray, and great, grey waves. Of this hereafter; in the meantime let us follow the due course of historic narrative. Seven P.M. found me at Breadalbane Terrace, clad in spotless blacks, white tie, shirt, et cætera, and finished off below with a pair of navvies’ boots. How true that the devil is betrayed by his feet! A message to Cummy at last. Why, O treacherous woman! were my dress boots withheld? Dramatis personæ: père R., amusing, long-winded, in many points like papa; mère R., nice, delicate, likes hymns, knew Aunt Margaret (’t’ould man knew Uncle Alan); fille R., nommée Sara (no h), rather nice, lights up well, good voice, _interested_ face; Miss L., nice also, washed out a little, and, I think, a trifle sentimental; fils R., in a Leith office, smart, full of happy epithet, amusing. They are very nice and very kind, asked me to come back—‘any night you feel dull; and any night doesn’t mean no night: we’ll be so glad to see you.’ _Cest la mère qui parle_.