Leibniz had not been wise to approach the King at such a time.

"The King has been so incensed by what was happening at home," she read, "that he could not endure to look on Leibniz who has always been a supporter of the Princess of Wales. He turned his back on him and in consequence

of this action Leibniz had no alternative but to leave court."

Poor lonely old Leibniz, whose only fault was that he was loyal to his old pupil and that he was a man of wit and understanding! So he had gone to his home in Hanover and lived there. He had left Court for ever and he despaired of ever coming to England.

Caroline pictured him, thinking of all those talks he had had with the Electress Sophia when she had embued him with her love of a country neither of them had ever seen.

He was heartbroken—deprived of his work, deprived of his friends, despised because he had a good brain and liked to use it.

Could a man die of a broken heart? Perhaps, thought Caroline, for Leibniz had died in Leibnizhaus, his house in Han-ver, and had been buried quietly, for the King had had no wish that he should be remembered.

"He was buried," ran the letter, "more like a robber than an ornament to his country."

Dear Leibniz who had tutored her, who had reproved her, and who had loved her!

It was another link with the old life broken; and at the same time it was an evil augury for the future.

George was harsh to those he believed did not serve him well. So poor Leibniz had suffered.

How much more harsh he would be to those who had deliberately flouted him—his own son and daughter-in-law I What would happen when he returned? That was what Caroline wondered as she sat awaiting the first signs of her child's arrival on those rapidly shortening days.

The crimson-decked barge made its way slowly up the river. On the banks the people cheered while the Prince, his hand on his heart, bowed and smiled, and the Princess, who looked as though she might give birth at any moment, sat back, with smiles as gracious as those of the Prince. The young Princesses, Anne, Amelia and Caroline, were with their mother and there was a special cheer for them; and on the elaborately decorated barge it was possible to catch a glimpse of those rival beauties.

Molly Lepel and Mary Bellenden, and of Sophie Howes of whom many verses had been written, of Henrietta Howard, the Prince's mistress, who was on the best of terms with the Princess, and of other personalities of the Court.

If the last month had been a foretaste of what the future reign would be like the people certainly would not mourn the passing of George I.

Caroline was a little sad. She had wanted to lie in at Hampton but Townsend had warned her that the child she was going to bear could be an heir to the throne, and heirs to the throne were not born at Hampton. The last thing Caroline wanted to do was ignore English custom, so regretfully she gave up the idea of staying at Hampton, and she could not throw off this feeling of sadness because she knew that when she left the Thames-side mansion, with its scarlet-bricked walls and its magnificent state apartments, and most delightful of all its gardens with its fountains and flowers, its greens and pavilions, its wilderness and maze, she was leaving more than a country house. This was the end of a phase—the most delightful phase of her life.

Moreover she felt ill, for a few weeks before she had almost miscarried. She wanted children—many more—but the months of discomfort while she awaited their arrival were very trying.

So to London and St. James's, and soon she hoped her child would be born.

I shall feel better then, she promised herself. More ready to face the storm which will inevitably come when the King returns.

A week after the royal party had returned to St. James's Palace, on a dark November Sunday Caroline's pains started.

All through the day officials were arriving at the Palace and the Prince summoned certain members of the Cabinet that they might be present when the child was born.

The German midwife, who could speak no English, but whom the Prince had commanded to attend to his wife, was growing anxious. As the labour was going on and on and there

was no sign of the child, Mrs. Clayton and Lady Cowper were apprehensive.

"This is no ordinary confinement," said Mrs. Clayton.

"The Princess's are always difficult," Lady Cowper reminded her, "and for that reason it is folly to leave her in the hands of this old German woman."

"An old country midwife!" agreed Mrs. Clayton. "We should call Sir David Hamilton."

"I will speak to the Princess," said the forthright Lady Cowper.

She went into the apartment where Caroline was walking up and down clearly in great pain. With her was the old German woman who was obviously very worried.

"Your Highness, would you allow me to send for Sir David Hamilton?" asked Lady Cowper.

Caroline stopped in her perambulations and stared at Lady Cowper.

"For vat reason?"

"Your Highness may have need of him. He is a trained accoucheur."

"I do not vish a man to be here at this time," said the Princess.

"Your Highness ..."

But Caroline had turned away, but as Lady Cowper went to the door she gripped the bedpost in a spasm of fresh agony. The midwife was shaking her head and letting out a stream of German.

"This is folly," said Lady Cowper; and went back to consult with Mrs. Clayton.

"But if the Princess will not have a man to attend her confinement, what can we do?"

All through Monday and Tuesday the Princess continued in labour. She lay on her bed exhausted and still the child could not be brought forth.

"This is madness!" said Lady Cowper. "She cannot go on like this. Her life is in danger."

The Princess's ladies waited in their apartment for news.

terrified and tearful. Lady Cowper raged that she had never heard such folly. The Princess's life was in danger and the only one she would have to attend her was that old fool of a midwife.

Selecting one of the Princess's German attendants, the Countess of Biickeburg, Lady Cowper commanded that she go to the Prince and tell him that the Princess needed the expert attention of Sir David Hamilton and that he must be sent for without delay.

The Countess went to the Prince where he was waiting with his Council.

As he listened to her his face grew red with anger—and with fear.

How dared they suggest that all was not well. Life had become so good. He was treated as a King; he was popular; he had sliown himself to be a virile man. His wife was fruitful; he had a mistress. Very soon he would liave another for Mary Bellendcn would not hold out much longer. Everything was well.

"Nonsense," he said. "The Princess's confinements are al-vays like this. Ve alvays think the child vill come earlier . . . it is alvays so. She is veil ... veil ... I tell you."

The Countess retreated in haste and when she reported back to Lady Cowper, the latter with Mrs. Clayton to support her, decided that something would have to be done.

They were certain that the Princess's life was in danger.

Lady Cowper went into the lying-in chamber and called to the midwife.

"What is happening?" she demanded in German.

The old woman raised her eyes to the ceiling. "It is a difficult confinement... very difficult."

"And you are not competent enough to deal with it ... you know it."

"I do my best."

"Admit you're afraid."

"It's a difficult confinement."