heralded by oblongs of light in the windows across the Queen Street
gardens. We saw the college lad, tall, with tweed coat and cigarette,
returning to Heriot Row with an armful of books, in sad or sparkling
mood. The house was dim and dusty: a fine entrance hall, large dining
room facing the street--and we imagined Louis and his parents at
breakfast. Above this, the drawing room, floored with parquet oak, a
spacious and attractive chamber. Above this again, the nursery, and
opening off it the little room where faithful Cummie slept. But in vain
we looked for some sign or souvenir of the entrancing spirit. The room
that echoed to his childish glee, that heard his smothered sobs in the
endless nights of childish pain, the room where he scribbled and brooded
and burst into gusts of youth's passionate outcry, is now silent and
forlorn.

With what subtly mingled feelings we peered from room to room, seeing
everything, and yet not daring to give ourselves away to the courteous
young agent. And what was it he said?--"This was the house of Lord
So-and-so" (I forget the name)--"and incidentally, Robert Louis
Stevenson lived here once. His signature occurs once or twice in the
deeds."

_Incidentally_!...

Like many houses in Auld Reekie, 17 Heriot Row is built on a steep slant
of ground, so that the rear of the house is a storey or more higher than
the face. We explored the kitchens, laundries, store-rooms, and other
"offices" with care, imagining that little "Smoutie" may have run here
and there in search of tid-bits from the cook. Visions of that
childhood, fifty years before, were almost as real as our own. We seemed
to hear the young treble of his voice. That house was the home of the