136 A BOOK-LOVER S HOLIDAYS 



shrinking. Three travellers, evidently English 

 men, were at the landing. One of them came 

 up to me and introduced himself, saying: &quot;You 

 won t remember me; w^hen I last saw you, you 

 were romping with little Prince Sigurd, in 

 Buckingham Palace at the time of the King s 

 funeral; I was in attendance on (naming an 

 august lady); my name is Herschel, Lord Her- 

 schel.&quot; I recalled the incident at once. On 

 returning from my African trip I had passed 

 through western Europe, and had been most 

 courteously received. In one palace the son 

 and heir whom I have called Sigurd, which 

 was not his name was a dear little fellow, very 

 manly and also very friendly; and he reminded 

 me so of my own children when they were small 

 that I was unable to resist the temptation of 

 romping with him, just as I had romped with 

 them. A month later, when as special ambas 

 sador I was attending King Edward s funeral, 

 I called at Buckingham Palace to pay my re 

 spects, and was taken in to see the august lady 

 above alluded to. The visit lasted nearly an 

 hour, and toward the end I heard little squeaks 

 and sounds in the hall outside, for which I 

 could not account. Finally I was dismissed, and, 

 on opening the door, there was little Sigurd, 

 with his nurse, waiting for me. He had heard 



