“I never heard of the instrument,” said the Queen. “Do you sing?” “Oh, yes. We can sing in parts,” said Anthea. “That _is_ magic,” said the Queen. “How many parts are you each cut into before you do it?” “We aren’t cut at all,” said Robert hastily. “We couldn’t sing if we were. We’ll show you afterwards.” “So you shall, and now sit quiet like dear children and hear me do justice. The way I do it has always been admired. I oughtn’t to say that, ought I? Sounds so conceited. But I don’t mind with you, dears. Somehow I feel as though I’d known you quite a long time already.” The Queen settled herself on her throne and made a signal to her attendants. The children, whispering together among the cushions on the steps of the throne, decided that she was very beautiful and very kind, but perhaps just the least bit flighty. The first person who came to ask for justice was a woman whose brother had taken the money the father had left for her. The brother said it was the uncle who had the money. There was a good deal of talk and the children were growing rather bored, when the Queen suddenly clapped her hands, and said— “Put both the men in prison till one of them owns up that the other is innocent.” “But suppose they both did it?” Cyril could not help interrupting. “Then prison’s the best place for them,” said the Queen. “But suppose neither did it.” “That’s impossible,” said the Queen; “a thing’s not done unless someone does it. And you mustn’t interrupt.” Then came a woman, in tears, with a torn veil and real ashes on her head—at least Anthea thought so, but it may have been only road-dust. She complained that her husband was in prison. “What for?” said the Queen. “They _said_ it was for speaking evil of your Majesty,” said the woman, “but it wasn’t. Someone had a spite against him. That was what it was.” “How do you know he hadn’t spoken evil of me?” said the Queen. “No one could,” said the woman simply, “when they’d once seen your beautiful face.” “Let the man out,” said the Queen, smiling. “Next case.” The next case was that of a boy who had stolen a fox. “Like the Spartan boy,” whispered Robert. But the Queen ruled that nobody could have any possible reason for owning a fox, and still less for stealing one. And she did not believe that there were any foxes in Babylon; she, at any rate, had never seen one. So the boy was released. The people came to the Queen about all sorts of family quarrels and neighbourly misunderstandings—from a fight between brothers over the division of an inheritance, to the dishonest and unfriendly conduct of a woman who had borrowed a cooking-pot at the last New Year’s festival, and not returned it yet. And the Queen decided everything, very, very decidedly indeed. At last she clapped her hands quite suddenly and with extreme loudness, and said— “The audience is over for today.” Everyone said, “May the Queen live for ever!” and went out.