and second supposed death of the elder. Husband and wife now
really make up, and then the cloven hoof appears. For the third supposed
death and the manner of the third reappearance is steep; steep, sir. It
is even very steep, and I fear it shames the honest stuff so far; but
then it is highly pictorial, and it leads up to the death of the elder
brother at the hands of the younger in a perfectly cold-blooded murder,
of which I wish (and mean) the reader to approve. You see how daring is
the design. There are really but six characters, and one of these
episodic, and yet it covers eighteen years, and will be, I imagine, the
longest of my works.--Yours ever,

R. L. S.

_Read Gosse's Raleigh._ First-rate.--Yours ever,

R. L. S.

TO THE REV. DR. CHARTERIS

_Saranac Lake, Adirondacks, New York, U.S.A. [Spring 1888]._

MY DEAR DR. CHARTERIS,--The funeral letter, your notes, and many other
things, are reserved for a book, _Memorials of a Scottish Family_, if
ever I can find time and opportunity. I wish I could throw off all else
and sit down to it to-day. Yes, my father was a "distinctly religious
man," but not a pious. The distinction painfully and pleasurably recalls
old conflicts; it used to be my great gun--and you, who suffered for the
whole Church, know how needful it was to have some reserve artillery!
His sentiments were tragic; he was a tragic thinker. Now, granted that
life is tragic to the marrow, it seems the proper function of religion
to make us accept and serve in that tragedy, as officers in that other
and comparable one of war. Service is the word, active service, in the
military sense; and the religious man--I beg pardon, the pious man--is
he who has a military joy in duty--not he who weeps over the wounded. We
can do no more than try to do our best. Really, I am the grandson of the
manse--I preach you a kind of sermon. Box the brat's ears!

My mother--to pass to matters more within my competence--finely enjoys
herself. The new country, some new friends we have made, the interesting
experiment of this climate--which (at least) is tragic--all have done
her good. I have myself passed a better winter than for years, and now
that it is nearly over have some diffident hopes of doing well in the
summer and "eating a little more air" than usual.

I thank you for the trouble you are taking, and my mother joins with me
in kindest regards to yourself and Mrs. Charteris.--Yours very truly,