The romance of the South Seas had always been a lure to his imagination. Everywhere he made friends with the not always gentle natives-some had been cannibals. Stevenson's manner of making friends with the native chiefs was to tell them story after story of the wild life of the Scotch Highlanders, until the native felt that here was a man of like passions with himself, and would come out with his own adventures or the legends of his race. The name by which Stevenson was generally known in the South Seas was Tusitala, the Teller of Tales.

This Pacific life agreed so well with Stevenson, and delighted him so much, that in 1891 he bought on the island of Upolu, in the Samoan group, an estate which he named Vailima, or Five Waters, from the mountain streams on its borders. Here he built a roomy and comfortable house, and lived with his wife, his mother, and as many kinsfolk as he could gather, until his death. Some chiefs who had received kindness at his hands when imprisoned for political reasons, on their release built for him a road through the forest to his home, and named it "The Road of the Loving Heart." Stevenson's life at Vailima was full, varied, and interesting. He wrote here some of his best works, including David Balfour, a sequel to Kidnapped, and two unfinished novels, St. Ives and Weir of Hermiston. In the dedication of this last book he expresses a longing for the Scotland he dearly loved but had not strength to revisit.

Stevenson died in 1894, and was buried, with touching lamentations of his native friends, on a mountain top

above Vailima. On his tomb is inscribed his own poem,

There is much to justify the high esteem in which Stevenson is held: the revival of stirring romance in Treasure Island and Kidnapped; the vivid characterization of such figures as John Silver, and Alan Breck; the sympathetic understanding of childhood in The Child's Garden of Verses; the humor, wisdom, and beauty of the essays; the exquisite artistry of his style; but most of all, the courage that enabled him to face poverty, hardship, and mortal disease, and in a period when pessimism was the literary fashion of the day, to make his message to the world, in his books and in his life, one of high-hearted faith and cheer.

DAVID BALFOUR IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

On the death of his father, David Balfour is left with no prospects but with the expectation that from a distant relative in the House of Shaws for whom Mr. Balfour left a letter, David will receive aid in making his living. He goes to the House of Shaws, a magnificent, unfinished building badly in need of repairs, and makes the acquaintance there of a miserly old man who claims to be his father's elder brother. Uncle Ebenezer's queer actions arouse David's suspicions. The following incident bears out his feeling that Uncle Ebenezer may be his father's younger brother and that he is trying to cheat David of the inheritance. It is one of many adventures that befall the lad before he comes into his rights.

FOR a day that was begun so ill, the day passed fairly well. We had the porridge cold again at noon, and hot porridge at night; porridge and small beer was my uncle's diet. He spoke but little, and that in the same way as before, shooting a question at me after a long silence; and when I sought to lead him in talk about my future, slipped out of it again. In a room next door to the kitchen, where he suffered me to go, I found a great number of books, both Latin and English, in which I took great pleasure all the afternoon. Indeed the time passed so lightly in this good company, that I began to be almost reconciled to my residence at Shaws; and nothing but the sight of my uncle, and his eyes playing hide-and-seek with mine, revived the force of my distrust.

One thing I discovered, which put me in some doubt. This was an entry on the fly-leaf of a chapbook (one of Patrick Walker's) plainly written by my father's hand and thus conceived: "To my brother Ebenezer on his fifth birthday." Now, what puzzled me was this: That as my father was of course the younger brother, he must either have made some strange error, or he must have written, before he was yet five, an excellent, clear, manly hand of writing.

I tried to get this out of my head; but though I took down many interesting authors, old and new, history, poetry, and story-book, this notion of my father's hand of writing stuck to me; and when at length I went back into the kitchen, and sat down once more to porridge and small beer, the first thing I said to Uncle Ebenezer was to ask him if my father had not been very quick at his book.

"Alexander? No him!" was the reply. "I was far quicker mysel'; I was a clever chappie when I was young. Why, I could read as soon as he could."

This puzzled me yet more; and a thought coming into my head, I asked if he and my father had been twins.

He jumped upon his stool, and the horn spoon fell out of his hand upon the floor. "What gars ye ask that?" he said, and he caught me by the breast of the jacket, and looked this time straight into my eyes: his own were little and light, and bright like a bird's, blinking and winking strangely.

"What do you mean?" I asked, very calmly, for I was far stronger than he, and not easily frightened. "Take your hand from my jacket. This is no way to behave."

My uncle seemed to make a great effort upon himself. "Dod man, David," he said, "ye shouldnae speak to me about your father. That's where the mistake is." He sat a while and shook, blinking in his plate: "He was all the brother that ever I had," he added, but with no heart in his voice; and then he caught up his spoon and fell to supper again, but still shaking.

Now this last passage, this laying of hands upon my person and sudden profession of love for my dead father, went so clear beyond my comprehension that it put me into both fear and hope. On the one hand, I began to think my uncle was perhaps insane and might be dangerous; on the other, there came up into my mind (quite unbidden by me and even discouraged) a story like some ballad I had heard folk singing, of a poor lad that was a rightful heir and a wicked kinsman that tried to keep him from his own. For why should my uncle play a part with a relative that came, almost a beggar, to his door, unless in his heart he had some cause to fear him?

With this notion, all unacknowledged, but nevertheless getting firmly settled in my head, I now began to imitate his covert looks; so that we sat at table like a cat and a mouse, each stealthily observing the other. Not another word had he to say to me, black or white, but was busy turning something secretly over in his mind; and the longer we sat and the more I looked at him, the more certain I became that the something was unfriendly to myself.

When he had cleared the platter, he got out a single pipeful of tobacco, just as in the morning, turned round