XXXV1 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR 
shooting, and it was remarked at the time how well 
he had been doing.. On the Sunday morning he was 
obviously very unwell, and could barely take the 
services in the church, but he managed to struggle 
through with them somehow or other. On the 
Monday he was worse, and, on the Monday morning 
following, he died. It was how he wished to die— 
in the full possession of his strength and faculties. 
The crowds that assembled at his funeral, the dis- 
tressing scenes that were witnessed (many of his 
parishioners being moved to tears), all testified to 
the love and respect they had for the ‘‘ old Rector.” 
The parishioners subscribed over £300 for a memorial, 
which took the shape of a reading room endowed in 
perpetuity for the use of the villagers, and a mural 
tablet inside records the fact that it was so endowed 
in memory of him. 
Sproughton Church still stands, Sproughton’s 
river still wanders like a silver thread through 
the long green meadows; but gone are the roses 
of Sproughton now, gone are the long, long rows of 
them that were the Rector’s delight; and gone, too, 
is the dear, kind-hearted old Rector and his greatly- 
loved wife. Ah, well, tempora mutantur ; they sleep 
together, just as they wished to do, in one grave— 
between the church, which they loved so well and 
served so faithfully, and the silent river. 
K. F.-M. 
January 26, 1910. 
