her could not abide them. She said 'That Stevenson man' with a sneer, and, it was never easy to her to sneer. At thought of him her face would become

venson. He knew her opinion of him, and would write, 'My ears tingled yesterday; I sair doubt she has been miscalling me again.' But the more she miscalled him the more he del

s the picture of woe. 'Not writing!' I echoed, no, I was not writing, I saw no use in ever trying to write again. And down, I suppose, went my head once more. She misunderstood, and thought the blow had fallen; I had awakened to the discovery, always dreaded by her, that I had written myself dry; I

ad any of them,'

ll,' said she

as if she had it in the tongs, replace it on its book-shelf. I would wrap it up in the cover she had made for the latest Carlyle: she would skin it contemptuously and again bring it down. I would hide her spectacles in it, and lay it on top of the clothes-basket and prop it up invitingly open against her tea-pot. And at last I got her, though I forget by which of many contrivances. What I recall vividly is a key-hole view, to which another member of the

sitting very qu

never do anything, I'm

u been r

ead at this

that in y

my a

book beneat

ht be a

me

ith you to

, it's "The Master of Ballan

ly surprised. But I looked sternl

: not nearly equal to m

them,' she sai

d that I could put it wherever I liked for all she cared, so long as I took it out of her sight (the implication was that it had stolen on to her lap while she was looking out a

kind,' repl

d up, her eye was not on me, but on the shelf where 'The Master of Ballantrae' stood inviting her. Mr. Stevenson's books are not for the shelf, they are for the hand; even when you lay them down, let it be on the table for the next comer. Being the most sociable that man has penned in our time, they feel very lonely up there in a stately row. I think their eye is on you the moment you enter the room, and so you are drawn to look at them, and you take a volume down

ked James Durie reproachfully.

ed my mother, with a

contemptuously, '

miscalled,' said m

ord clattered deliciously (I cannot think this was accidental), which made my mother sigh. L

king his sword again, 'than the clack-

my mother, who

arm,' said James,

ed my mother. 'He's

'you are certain to do it so

,' said my mother; 'and, forbye tha

re you?' h

n' pert!' cri

ou sev

on,' she

said, 'a

h chaff'; but she smiled and rose as if he had st

her) that I could catch only one remark. It came from James, and seems to show the tenor o

e was back, carrying her accomplice openly, and she thrust him with positive viciousness into the place where my Stevenson had lost a tooth (as the writer whom he most resembled would have said). And then like a good mother she took up

ver having been in love. But they are in the house! That is like knowing that you will fall in love to-morrow morning. With one word, by drawing one mournful face, I could have got my mother to abjure the jam-shelf-nay, I might have managed it by merely saying that she had enjoyed 'The Master of Ballantrae.' For you must remember that she only read it to persuade herself (and me) of its unworthiness, and that the reason she wanted to read the others was to get further proof. All this she made plain to me, eyeing me a little anxiou

reply without fear, for she was too engrossed to se

mother says, so slyly that my sister and I shake our hea

se one-legged scoundre

t them,' she r

t is about the man that s

he insists. 'I would a hant

e public. 'Oh, I may take a look at it again by-and-by,' she says indifferently, but nevertheless the probability is that as the door shuts the book opens, as if by some mechanical contrivance. I remember how she read 'Treasure Island,' holding it close to the ribs of the fi

nd compelling it to come back and play. And I suppose my mother felt this, as so many have felt it: like others she was a little scared at first to find herself skipping again, with this masterful child at the rope, but soon she gave him her hand and set off with him for the meadow, not

had been

he is

ish he

what I could have

is the second to the left.') Even London seemed to her to carry me so far away that I often took a week to the journey (the first six days in getting her used to the idea), and these letters terrified her. It was not the finger of Jim Hawkins she now saw beckoning me across the seas, it was Jo

a lett

have h

u like to

N

not abi

na tho

e a b

s all

luctance, and never walked so quickly as when I was going back. In the meantime that happened which put an end for ever to my scheme of travel. I shall never go up the Road of Loving Hearts now, on 'a wonderful clear night of stars,' to meet the man coming toward me on a horse. It is still a wonderful clear night of stars, but the road is empty. So I never saw the dea