Nevertheless, the hills, I am glad to say, are unaltered; though I dare say the torrents have given them many a shrewd scar, and the rains and thaws dislodged many a boulder from their heights, if one were only keen enough to perceive it. The sea makes the same noise in the shingle; and the lemon and orange gardens still discharge in the still air their fresh perfume; and the people have still brown comely faces; and the Pharmacie Gros still dispenses English medicines; and the invalids (eheu!) still sit on the promenade and trifle with their fingers in the fringes of shawls and wrappers; and the shop of Pascal Amarante still, in its present bright consummate flower of aggrandisement and new paint, offers everything that it has entered into people's hearts to wish for in the idleness of a sanatorium; and the "Château des Morts" is still at the top of the town; and the fort and the jetty are still at the foot, only there are now two jetties; and--I am out of breath. (To be continued in our next.) For myself, I have come famously through the journey; and as I have written this letter (for the first time for ever so long) with ease and even pleasure, I think my head must be better. I am still no good at coming down hills or stairs; and my feet are more consistently cold than is quite comfortable. But, these apart, I feel well; and in good spirits all round. I have written to Nice for letters, and hope to get them to-night. Continue to address Poste Restante. Take care of yourselves. This is my birthday, by the way--O, I said that before. Adieu.--Ever your affectionate son, R. L. STEVENSON. TO MRS. SITWELL, _Menton, November 13, 1873._ I must pour out my disgust at the absence of a letter; my birthday nearly gone, and devil a letter--I beg pardon. After all, now I think of it, it is only a week since I left. I have here the nicest room in Mentone. Let me explain. Ah! there's the bell for the _table d'hôte_. Now to see if there is anyone conversable within these walls. In the interval my letters have come; none from you, but one from Bob, which both pained and pleased me. He cannot get on without me at all, he writes; he finds that I have been the whole world for him; that he only talked to other people in order that he might tell me afterwards about the conversation. Should I--I really don't know quite what to feel; I am so much astonished, and almost more astonished that he should have expressed it than that he should feel it; he never would have _said_ it, I know. I feel a strange sense of weight and responsibility.--Ever your faithful friend, R. L. S. TO MRS. SITWELL In the latter part of this letter will be found the germ of the essay _Ordered South_. _Menton, Sunday [November 23, 1873]._