was awaiting them and shortly afterwards the specialist from town arrived. It was then discovered that his pelvis had been broken, so his suffering can be well imagined; they had been considerably augmented I hear at the house he was first carried into with the kindly but terribly mistaken endeavour to pull off his boots instead of cutting them off. Mr. Palmer says he shall never forget the agonies that were suffered and yet not a murmur or word of impatience, not even a groan from the martyr. He was most anxious his wife should not be shocked with the news, as an interesting event was looked forward to in the early spring, and she was at the time resting. The news was carefully kept from her until the doctors had done their work. He was bound up and put to bed, where of course he remained for some time hovering between life and death. One day when his doctors hoped he had turned the corner and was going to recover, they told him he was with luck going to recover, but that 99 out of a 100 with broken pelvis bones did not. As they were leaving the room they heard Lord Bill laughing, seeing nothing to laugh at they asked what amused him, he replied, “Oh nothing, I was only thinking of the other 99 poor devils!” Certainly Lord William got about again after a time, but he was never the same man, his pluck and spirit were still unquenchable, but his powers of physical resistance were shattered. He tired more easily and did not feel up to much exertion; he got up too soon, being anxious to attend the funeral of his sister-in-law, Blanche Lady Waterford, to whom he was greatly attached. This was February 22nd, 1897. Everybody tried to dissuade him, fearing it might throw him back, but he would go. Lord William was at his best when telling stories against himself; here is one of them. He had a party in the house for covert shooting, he did not care very much for the sport himself, and had not done much of it, though he enjoyed a day at the time. He used to leave the arranging and managing of the shoots chiefly to Mr. Palmer. One of these shooting parties was being arranged and he told Mr. Palmer to bring his young son whom he was sure would enjoy a day with the pheasants. The little lad was about twelve, and his name was Spencer, he stood mostly by Lord William during the day. When he went home at night having had a very happy day, he asked his father if he ought not to write and thank Lord William for letting him see the shooting, to which his father replied, “Certainly.” “What shall I say, father?” asked the boy. “Oh, you must write your own letter, you are quite old enough for that,” so off he went, wrote the letter and posted it.