[On blank recto flyleaf at the beginning of the volume:] 'My Dear Brown,/ Here it is, with the mark of a San Francisco BOUQUINISTE. And if ever in all my "human conduct" I have done a better thing to any fellow-creature than handing on to you this sweet, dignified, and wholesome book, I know I shall hear of it on the last day. To write a book like this were impossible; at least one can hand it on − with a wrench − one to another. My wife cries out and my own heart misgives me, but still here it is. I could scarcely better prove myself − Yours affectionately, R.L. Stevenson. [Later, placed on a blank recto page facing p.166, i.e. the last page of Fruits of Solitude and before Fruits of a Father’s Love:] My Dear Brown, / I hope if you get this far, you will know what an invaluable present I have made you. Even the copy was dear to me, printed in the colony that Penn established and carried in my pocket all about San Francisco streets, read in street cars and ferry boats, when I was sick unto death, and found in all times a peaceful and sweet companion. But I hope, when you shall have reached this note, my gift will not have been in vain; for while just now we are so busy and intelligent, there is not the man living, no, nor recently dead, that could have put, with so lovely a spirit, so much honest, kind wisdom into words. / R.L.S.'