Coffee fairly done, Lady Augusta called me gently to come and speak to Her Majesty. I obeyed, first asking, as an old, infirmish man, Her Majesty’s permission to sit, which was graciously conceded. Nothing of the least significance was said, nor _needed_; however, my bit of dialogue went very well. “What part of Scotland I came from?” “Dumfries (where Majesty might as well go sometimes). Carlisle, _Caer Lewel_, a place of about the antiquity of King Solomon (according to Milton),” whereat Majesty smiled. Border Ballads and old James Pool slightly alluded to, not by name. Glasgow, and grandfather’s ride thither, ending in more psalms, and streets vacant at 9½ P. M.--hard, sound Presbyterian root of what has now shot up to such a monstrously ugly cabbage-tree and hemlock-tree! all which Majesty seemed to take rather well: whereupon Mrs. Grote rose good-naturedly and brought forward her husband _cheek by jowl_ with Majesty, who evidently did not care a straw for him, but kindly asked--“Writing anything?” and one heard “Aristotle, now that I have done with Plato” (but only for a minimum of time). Majesty herself (and I think apropos of some question about my _shaky hand_) said something about her own difficulty in writing to dictation, which brought forward Lady Lyell and husband, mutually used to the operation; after which, talk becoming quite trivial, Majesty gracefully retired with Lady Augusta, and, in ten minutes more, returned, to receive our farewell bows, which, too, she did very prettily, and sailed out as if moving on skates, and bending her head to us with a smile. By the underground railway I was home before seven, and out of the adventure, with only a headache of little moment. Froude tells me there are foolish myths about the poor business, especially about my share of it; but this is the real truth, worth to me in strictest truth _all but nothing_, in the myths less than nothing. Tell the Dr. I intended writing him, but it is already (horrible to think!) a quarter-past four. Adieu, dear Sister, Yours ever, T. C. [32] It was nearly five years after her husband’s death before the Queen could bear to listen to music. In 1866, Princess Alice wrote to her mother: “I am really glad to hear that you can listen to a little music. Music is such a heavenly thing, and dear Papa loved it so much, that I can’t but think that now it must be soothing, and bring you near to him.” CHAPTER XVII. THE WARP AND WOOF OF HOME AND POLITICS.