A few months after Miss North’s departure, my second son Bertram was born. His arrival gave pleasure to the people of the country, for they think a great deal of a Rajah’s son who is born on their soil. It may be on this account they look upon him as their particular property. My Malay friends poured into my room as he lay in his cradle, and made various remarks as to his future: “A Sarawak boy,” “A son of our Rajah,” “He will be great some day,” “Look at his nose,” and they tenderly took this feature between their thumb and forefinger (even in those days Bertram’s nose was rather prominent), and then felt their own flat noses. The many toys and jingling ornaments that hung over his cradle made a forest of glittering things above his head and caused him much enjoyment. He is called “Tuan Muda” (young lord), a title given in Sarawak to the second brother in succession to the Raj. Malay children were brought to play with him, and his arrival strengthened even more the bonds of friendship already existing between the people and the Rajah’s family. “How good it will be, Rajah Ranee,” Daiang Sahada would say, “when he grows up and marries and has children, and you and I will be here to take care of him and his family. It will make Sarawak still more beautiful than it is now, for it will ensure our future happiness.” It is sad to think that nearly everything we most look forward to in life does not come to pass, and instead of my now being with my sons, their wives, and their children, happily settled in Sarawak amongst the best friends we have in the world, I should be writing this book and wasting my life here in this city called London.