ear. She is heart and soul devoted to her husband, proud of his
achievements, and her delight is the consciousness of substantially
aiding him in his enterprises.

They then had with them a boy of eleven or twelve, Samuel Lloyd
Osbourne, to be much referred to later (a son of Mrs Stevenson by a
former marriage), whose delight was to draw the oddest, but perhaps
half intentional or unintentional caricatures, funny, in some
cases, beyond expression. His room was designated the picture-
gallery, and on entering I could scarce refrain from bursting into
laughter, even at the general effect, and, noticing this, and that
I was putting some restraint on myself out of respect for the
host's feelings, Stevenson said to me with a sly wink and a gentle
dig in the ribs, "It's laugh and be thankful here." On Lloyd's
account simple engraving materials, types, and a small printing-
press had been procured; and it was Stevenson's delight to make
funny poems, stories, and morals for the engravings executed, and
all would be duly printed together. Stevenson's thorough enjoyment
of the picture-gallery, and his goodness to Lloyd, becoming himself
a very boy for the nonce, were delightful to witness and in degree
to share. Wherever they were - at Braemar, in Edinburgh, at Davos
Platz, or even at Silverado - the engraving and printing went on.
The mention of the picture-gallery suggests that it was out of his
interest in the colour-drawing and the picture-gallery that his
first published story, TREASURE ISLAND, grew, as we shall see.

I have some copies of the rude printing-press productions,
inexpressibly quaint, grotesque, a kind of literary horse-play, yet
with a certain squint-eyed, sprawling genius in it, and innocent
childish Rabelaisian mirth of a sort. At all events I cannot look