In 1867 came the first home bereavement, the first heart-breaking loss, from which my father never recovered; he kept to his daily work, but gaiety forsook him, and the trouble no doubt told upon his constitution, which was threatened with a serious form of rheumatic gout, and with gradual heart failure. His beloved third son, Victor Alexander, Queen Victoria's godson, died suddenly whilst assisting at a penny reading at Aston Clinton, the residence of Sir Anthony and Lady de Rothschild, to whom he was devoted. Victor was a lad of great promise; he was in the Horse Artillery, and a bad accident in Canada is supposed to have left some injury to the back of the head and spine. He had been suffering from pains in the head, but was in the highest of spirits the day before he died. An accomplished fellow, fond of music and poetry, he was reading 'The Grandmother' by Tennyson, and at verse three-- Willy my beauty, my eldest born, the flower of the flock, Never a man could fling him, for Willy stood like a rock'-- he fell forward on his face and never spoke again. The tenderness and sympathy shown by Sir Anthony and Lady de Rothschild on this occasion made a deep impression on our bereaved hearts. It was quite beyond words, and from it sprang that happy marriage between my brother Eliot Yorke, Equerry to H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh, and Annie de Rothschild, their daughter. It was founded on the truest love, and admiration of great qualities which have stood the test of many years. The marriage took place in Wimpole Church in February 1873. It was about June in the same year that my father left Wimpole for the last time in an invalid carriage. The fatigue of the journey brought on a severe attack of heart failure, and as he reached his house in Portman Square, we feared it was his last. But not so. A few weeks later he reached his beloved Sydney Lodge, where his room was arranged on the ground floor and a young doctor always in attendance. His patience and fortitude were heroic. Unable to lie down, he sat for weeks in an armchair, supported at night by his two attendants. Nothing could be more sad than to witness his lingering end. Sometimes he rallied sufficiently to be wheeled into the drawing-room and be refreshed by our singing hymns to him in parts. He was a firm believer in Christ, and constantly asked for St. Paul's Epistles to be read to him: 'Read me my St. Paul,' he would say. The conclusions of the great Apostle to the Gentiles as to the divinity of Christ supported him through all his troubles. His last letter, dated September 7, 1873, was written to his friend Tom Cocks. * * * * * 'I send my Banker's Book and beg you will return it made up with a balance. I am a dying man, and shall be glad when it pleases God to call me home. 'Yours truly, my dear Cocks, 'HARDWICKE.' * * * * *