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I HAVE been asked to write a preface to this little
book. This would seem a work of supererogation unless it were to point out that it is as it were a chance record, and therefore in some respects the
more valuable, of the character of Robert Louis
Stevenson. Slight as is the sketch of him, a more attractive portrait of a man of genius, whose end and aim was to promote the happiness of his fellow-creatures, has in my poor judgment seldom been presented to us.
In the frontispiece I recognise at once the commanding figure of my old friend standing by his on the same day that the news of his death was known in London. Standing by the house are his wife and Mrs. Fraser. On the other side, on
horse. The last words I had from him reached me