to take care of his money. He had small eyes, very blue, and straight eyebrows and a long skull stretching far back such as I have always found in conjunction with a marked capacity for detail. He was at the same time an exceedingly good listener, and well as he talked I think he preferred listening. Had the destinies permitted he might have become a great student and a recluse and buried himself in a university. His expression was strangely wistful, his eyes seemed to peep at you like stars in the early twilight. Although a successful trader he said that his success and I believe him--_was_ due entirely to his chief clerk and an elder brother's advice. He did not look as if he belonged to the actual world. Indeed he had become the denizen of another world. My stammering uncle tried to comfort his latter years with Bible Christianity and an occasional prayer meeting. George chose better, he studied books on magic and he practised in the ancient science of astrology. It was my son W. B. Yeats who put him on the track of these wonders, and what was in some degree only occasional with my son was to my friend the passion of his life. I think my son looks a poet; I know George looked an astrologer. His eyes were the eyes of second sight. I think indeed he knew the future better than he knew the present and the past. He had a scared look, as if he saw ghosts that no one else could see, & his horoscopes as many can testify were verified. He foresaw and predicted almost to the day, and certainly to the week, when my friend York Powell would die, and he did this more than a year before, when York Powell was in perfect health. When the London 'Times' announced that York Powell was making good recovery, 'No' said George 'the stars are still there.' The last weeks of his life were characteristic. My eldest daughter always spent her summer holidays with him. Arriving one evening she was surprised to find him in bed and he at once said to her, 'Lily I think I am going'. He lived on for six weeks spending his time calmly reading novels for which she searched the country. He would read only what is called serious fiction, and not once again did he speak of death till two days before the end, when he gave her minute directions as to certain things she was to do after his death, how she was to distribute certain small sums of money which she would find in his pockets. He died at day-break while the Banshee, heard by my daughter and two nurses, was wailing around the house. Business men cried when told of his death; they said he had an attractive personality.