“Disappointed,” he exclaimed.  “It was simply magnificent to stand in the presence of one who has done what he has, and then to find him so genial and human.  It was the next thing to seeing Wellington, and I dare say the Iron Duke would not have been half so human.”

The anticipation of a train trip across the continent was so distasteful that a proposed visit to Colorado was given up, and they decided to try the climate of the Adirondacks for the winter instead.

They chose Saranac, not far from the Canadian border, and rented a cottage there.

The climate was as unpleasant as possible.  It rained, snowed, sleeted, and froze continually.  The cold at times was arctic, the thermometer dropping thirty degrees below zero in January.  “Venison was crunching with ice after being an hour in the oven, and a large lump of ice was still unmelted in a pot where water was steaming all around it.”

Their cottage was dubbed “Hunter’s Home.”  It was far from the railroad, few luxuries were to be had, and they lived a simple life in earnest.

Of course, they had a dog; no “hunter’s home” would be complete without one, but Louis scouted the idea of adding things as unfitting as plush table-covers and upholstered footstools.  The table went bare, and he fashioned a footstool for his mother out of a log, in true backwoods fashion.

His wife and mother found the cold hard to bear, but he stood it remarkably well and benefited by it.  Saranac reminded him of Scotland, he said, without the smell of peats and the heather.

Dressed in a buffalo coat, astrakhan cap, and Indian boots, he and Lloyd walked, skated, or went sleighing every day.

His pen was kept busy also.  A new novel, “The Master of Ballantrae,” was started, and he contributed a series of articles to Scribner’s Magazine.  For these he was paid a regular sum offered by the publishers and agreed upon in advance—­a new experience.  It made him feel “awfu’ grand,” he told a Scotch friend.

A venture he had been longing to make since a boy was a cruise among the islands of the South Seas.  While enduring the bitter cold of Saranac such hazy ideas as he had had about such a trip began to form themselves into a definite scheme.  He was anxious for a long voyage; perhaps the warm sea air might cure him after all else had failed.

So night after night he and Lloyd eagerly pored over books and maps, and the family discussed plans for such an expedition.

When spring came Mrs. Stevenson started for San Francisco to secure, if possible, a yacht in which they might undertake such a cruise.  If all went well Louis and his mother and Lloyd would follow.

While they waited for results they spent the time at Manasquan, on the New Jersey coast.  There Stevenson and his son enjoyed the sailing, and their New York friends came often to see them.

Mr. Low tells of the day at Manasquan when word was received from Mrs. Stevenson that she had found a schooner-yacht satisfactory for the voyage.