he starts almost immediately upon his strange
venture. He must succeed. He is a man whom nothing could hold down. I
wish him luck, and have a kindly feeling towards him, and yet I distrust
him from the bottom of my heart, and shall be just as pleased to know
that the Atlantic rolls between us.

Well, my dear Bertie, a happy and tranquil, if not very ambitious
existence stretches before us. We are both in our twenty-fifth year, and
I suppose that without presumption we can reckon that thirty-five more
years lie in front of us. I can foresee the gradually increasing routine
of work, the wider circle of friends, the indentification with this or
that local movement, with perhaps a seat on the Bench, or at least
in the Municipal Council in my later years. It's not a very startling
programme, is it? But it lies to my hand, and I see no other. I should
dearly love that the world should be ever so little better for my
presence. Even on this small stage we have our two sides, and something
might be done by throwing all one's weight on the scale of breadth,
tolerance, charity, temperance, peace, and kindliness to man and beast.
We can't all strike very big blows, and even the little ones count for
something.

So good-bye, my dear boy, and remember that when you come to England our
home would be the brighter for your presence. In any case, now that I
have your address, I shall write again in a very few weeks. My kindest
regards to Mrs. Swanborough.

Yours ever,

J. STARK MUNRO.

[This is the last letter which I was destined to receive from my poor
friend. He started to spend the Christmas of that year (1884) with his
people, and on the journey was involved in the fatal railroad accident
at Sittingfleet, where the express ran into a freight train which was
standing in the depot. Dr. and Mrs. Munro were the only occupants of
the car next the locomotive, and were killed instantly, as were the
brakesman and one other passenger. It was such an end as both he and
his wife would have chosen; and no one who knew them would regret that
neither was left to mourn the other. His insurance policy of eleven
hundred pounds was sufficient to provide for the wants of his own
family, which, as his father was sick, was the one worldly matter which
could have caused him concern.--H. S.]

End of Project Gutenberg's The Stark Munro Letters, by J. Stark Munro

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STARK MUNRO LETTERS ***

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