The hedges are beginning to sprout, and the banks are decked with primroses and celandine. “Scant along the ridgy land, The beans their new-born ranks expand; The fresh-turned soil, with tender blades Thinly the sprouting barley shades.” So sings the sweet rural poet, Thomas Warton; of whom I suspect Harry Prout knows as little as of Waller. * * * * * Poor Mr. Prout is dead! the father of eight children. Yesterday morning, while it was yet dark, the turnpike-man heard a horse galloping furiously down the hill. On going down, he found the horse stopping at the gate, with Mr. Prout’s foot dangling in the stirrup, and his bleeding body on the ground. His skull was fractured, and he was quite dead. He was praising his new, showy, chestnut horse to me only a few days ago, and saying it was well worth a hundred guineas. It would have been worth a good many hundred guineas to his family had he not bought it. Poor Mr. Prout! The turnpike-man’s wife, it seems, immediately got up, assisted her husband to carry him in and lay him on their bed, and then washed his wounds; while the man, leading the vicious creature he was afraid to mount, came into the town to tell the news and get assistance. Poor Mrs. Prout and Harry were soon on the spot; Mr. Cecil soon followed. He and Mr. Prout were rivals, and rather cool to one another; but he looked very sorry as he hastened up the hill. I cannot help constantly thinking of them all. Last night, I dreamt I saw Mr. Prout galloping up the hill, all in the dark, along the edge of that frightful chalk-pit, to the poor woman for whom he had been sent; and then coming home, thinking of his snug house and warm bed, when—off dashed the horse! I have lost a kind doctor and friend; rich and poor deplore him, for he was sociable, kind, and humane. Often in money difficulties, poor man; though I believe his good wife made every shilling go twice as far as most could. She always kept up appearances, too, so nicely! No finery, no waste; but everything (whatever poor Harry might think) suitable and appropriate. Every one I have yet seen—not many, to be sure, but every one I _have_ seen—expresses regret, and is eager to show sympathy, and wonders what the widow and children will do. Something for themselves, that is certain—except the little ones, who cannot. Mrs. Prout is hardly capable, I am afraid, of undertaking a school; or that would keep them all nicely together. Therefore, Emily and Margaret must go out as governesses or teachers; Harry must get a place in some office; something must be found for James; Edward must be put to school; and Fanny must make herself her mamma’s little factotum, and look after the two youngest. Easy to _say_ “must” to all this! What a change a few hours have made! * * * * *