This letter was dated November 1st.  On November the 9th, Edward Bruce was killed by a fall from a dog-cart, driving into Cambridge from Ely.  He had driven over there with a friend, a pleasant but somewhat reckless man.  They had dined at Ely, and were returning in the evening, both in the highest spirits.  Edward was driving; the horse took fright, in a little village called Drayton, at a dog that ran across the road.  Edward was thrown out on to his head, and, entangled in the reins, was dragged for some distance.  The other escaped with a few bruises.

Arthur was acquainted with the terrible news by telegraph.  He came up to Cambridge at once, ill and broken with the shock as he was.  They told me that he looked terribly pale, but with a quiet self-possessed manner he made all arrangements and settled all bills.  The poor boy was buried in the north-west corner of the cemetery at Cambridge.  Arthur put up a little tablet to him at Trinity and at St. Uny Trevise.

In Memory of
E. B.,
BORN AT TEHERAN;
DIED AT CAMBRIDGE, NOV. 9, 1883. 
“What I do thou knowest not now, but
thou shalt know hereafter.”

Arthur had an interview with Edward’s companion on the fatal occasion.  I subjoin the latter’s account of it.  He requested me, when I wrote to him to ask him for some particulars relating to Edward Bruce, to make what use I wished of the letter.

“I can’t describe the effect the accident had on me.  It half drove me mad, I think.  I was very much attached to Edward Bruce, as, indeed, we all were.  I don’t attempt to condone the fault.  It was due entirely to my carelessness.  I pressed him to drive faster than he was willing to do.  I laughed at his scruples.  I whipped the horse on myself.  I never clearly knew what happened—­for I was stunned myself—­till I woke up and was told.

“When Mr. Hamilton came to see me, I was sitting in my room, over my breakfast, which I could not eat.  His card was brought in by my gyp, and it made me faint and sick.  He came in with his hand out, looking very pale, but smiling just as he used to smile, only more sadly.  ‘Don’t reproach me,’ I said; ‘I can’t bear it.’  ‘Reproach you!’ he said—­and I shall never forget the tone of affectionate wonder with which it came, or the relief it was to me to hear it—­’Reproach you!  I know how you loved him.’  I broke down at that, and cried wretchedly.  I found him sitting by me.  He put his hand on my shoulder and stroked my hair.  ‘I have only one more thing to say,’ he said, at last.  ’You will not mind my saying it, will you?  Eddy had told me all about you—­he was very open with me—­that you were not doing justice to your opportunities here, not fulfilling your own ideals and possibilities.  All I ask of you is to let this be the impulse to rise; do not let any morbid or fantastic remorse stand in your way, and baffle you.  You know that he would have been the first to have forgiven any share of the fault that may be