Emily Prout came to me this morning, all smiles, to show me Harry’s first letter. I could not help observing how much older she looked in mourning; sorrow and fore-thought have laid their fingers on her young brow; while her manners are remarkably lady-like and self-possessed. Harry, after warm-hearted inquiries for all at home, went on to say that his first lodging was horrid—its evils were beyond description. However, in the course of a few days, he had called on Mrs. and Miss Welsh, who, to his surprise, had received him as kindly as if he had been the son of an old friend. It was very encouraging. And they had invited him to tea that very evening, and everything was as snug and cosy as at dear Mrs. Cheerlove’s; and Mrs. Welsh quite pitied him about his lodging, and said she knew a very much better one, _and cheaper_, in her own street; and he had already moved into it, and was as comfortable as possible. The few inconveniences that _might_ be named, he would not; they would do him good: “Lives of great men all remind us, We may make our lives sublime!” which he meant to do. And Miss Welsh was a delightful companion, and had promised (“to take him” scratched out) he should take her to the National Gallery, British Museum, and all the gratis sights, little by little, till he had seen them all. And he was always to go to church with them, morning and evening (“which you know will save the expense of tipping the pew opener, and be more sociable too.”) And Mr. and Mrs. Whitgrave, also, were very nice people. He had found an Italian patriot there, who spoke of unhappy Orsini; and had known that glorious Garibaldi, and related how Madame Garibaldi swam across a river, holding on by her horse’s tail. And he did not mind the office life at all; he had so many pleasant things to think of. James and Ned and he should see one another sometimes. James had a tail coat, and did not look bad. Poor, good, brave boy! For there _was_ bravery in thus meeting insurmountable evils in a great, untried world. I loved him for dwelling so on the cheerful side; and a tear started into my eye, when Emily, in her affectionate way, kissed me, and said, “All _this_, dear Mrs. Cheerlove, is owing to _you_.” * * * * * “_Il se répand quelquefois de faux bruits._” And the corollary ought to be, “Do not help to spread them.” Small country towns are proverbially rife with false reports, often to the serious detriment of their subjects, even when the reports themselves are not ill-natured.