Also, wherefore not a word, dear Colvin? My news is: splendid health; great success of the _Black Arrow_; another tale demanded, readers this time (the Lord lighten them!) pleased; a great variety of small ships launched or still upon the stocks--(also, why not send the annotated proof of _Fontainebleau_? ce n'est pas d'un bon camarade); a paper on dogs for Carr;[7] a paper called _Old Mortality_, a paper called _A Misadventure in France_, a tale entituled _The Travelling Companion_; _Otto_ arrested one foot in air; and last and not least, a great demand for news of Sidney Colvin and others. Herewith I pause, for why should I cast pearls before swine? A word, Guardian Angel. You are much loved in this house, not by me only, but by the wife. The Wogg himself is anxious.--Ever yours affectionately, R. L. S. TO SIDNEY COLVIN _La Solitude, Hyeres [November 1883]._ MY DEAR COLVIN,--I have been bad, but as you were worse, I feel no shame. I raise a blooming countenance, not the evidence of a self-righteous spirit. I continue my uphill fight with the twin spirits of bankruptcy and indigestion. Duns rage about my portal, at least to fancy's ear. I suppose you heard of Ferrier's death: my oldest friend, except Bob. It has much upset me. I did not fancy how much. I am strangely concerned about it. My house is the loveliest spot in the universe; the moonlight nights we have are incredible; love, poetry and music, and the Arabian Nights, inhabit just my corner of the world--nest there like mavises. Here lies The carcase of Robert Louis Stevenson, An active, austere, and not inelegant writer, who, at the termination of a long career, wealthy, wise, benevolent, and honoured by the attention of two hemispheres, yet owned it to have been his crowning favour TO INHABIT LA SOLITUDE. (with the consent of the intelligent edility of Hyeres, he has been interred, below this frugal stone, in the garden which he honoured for so long with his poetic presence.) I must write more solemn letters. Adieu. Write. R. L. S. TO MRS. MILNE This is to a cousin who had been one of his favourite playmates in childhood, and had recognised some allusions in the proof slips of the _Child's Garden_ (the piece called _A Pirate Story_). _La Solitude, Hyeres [November 1883]._ MY DEAR HENRIETTA,--Certainly; who else would they be? More by token, on that particular occasion, you were sailing under the title of Princess Royal; I, after a furious contest, under that of Prince Alfred; and Willie, still a little sulky, as the Prince of Wales. We were all in a buck basket about half-way between the swing and the gate; and I can still see the Pirate Squadron heave in sight upon the weather bow.