“To-night,” said the Duchess to my mother, “I am dining with the Duke of Cambridge, and you and little Mary can either dine at home, or I will order my carriage earlier, and send you to dine with a friend.” The latter alternative was chosen, and we entered the Royal carriage in state, with the coachman and foot-men resplendent in scarlet and gold. It was Derby Day, and as we proceeded down Grosvenor Place, what wonder that the lowly occupants of that coach should be mistaken for the highest personages in the land. As we moved along, all heads were bowed, all hats raised. I took advantage of the occasion. I was about the same size, and of the same fair complexion and the same coloured hair as Princess Victoria, and I knew in a moment for whom I had the honour to be mistaken; so I imitated the courtesy which I felt sure Her Royal Highness would have evinced in the same circumstances, and I bowed repeatedly, first from one and then the other window, but that with such deceitful haste that the imposture could not be detected. My mother expostulated with me on my effrontery, but to no purpose; I was so much pleased with my own joke that I continued it the whole length of Grosvenor Place. How well I remember how entirely I sympathised, even while I deplored the death of our good kind king, in the love and enthusiasm which that young, blue-eyed, golden-haired, girlish Sovereign excited. There was something so picturesque, so romantic, to me, so like some fairy-tale of old, in the fair creature who reigned over this mighty Empire! I saw her one night at the Opera House, where she went in state, and a brilliant reception awaited her. I do not think I had ever seen her since two or three years before, when at the opening of Parliament she mounted the steps of the throne, and kissed the hand of her uncle, William the Fourth, while the dear old king, in his sailor’s uniform, surrounded by royal robes, stooped down and embraced the little princess, who was so soon to succeed him. [Sidenote: CORONATION OF QUEEN VICTORIA] In recalling that night at the Opera, I remember how, later in the evening, the door of the Royal Box opened to admit the Duke of Wellington, who naturally shared in the honours of the evening. It was to me a touching, beautiful sight, to see the young Queen give her hand to the old warrior and lead him forward to the front to obtain a reception from the audience, scarcely second in enthusiasm to her own.