Their Majesties sat in two gilded arm-chairs, in front of which was a rug.  There was a barytone from the Royal Theater who sang some Danish songs; then the Princess Thyra and an English lady and I sang the trio from “Elijah,” and a quartette with the barytone.  I sang several times alone.  There was an English lady, whose name I do not remember, who played a solo on the cornet a piston.  Her face was hidden by her music, which was on a stand in front of her.  After I had sung the “Caro Nome” from “Rigoletto,” and the English lady had played her solo, the deaf Princess Caroline—­who, with her ears filled with cotton and encompassed by her flaxen braids, sat in front—­said, in a loud and penetrating voice, “I like that lady’s singing better than the other one’s”—­meaning me.  Every one laughed.  I had never had a cornet a piston as a rival before.

March 1, 1878.

Dear Mother,—­Our last day here.  I lunched at Amalienborg, and was the only stranger present.  The King, who sat next to me, said, “I feel quite hurt that you have never asked me for my photograph.”

“But I have one,” I answered, “which I bought.  I dare not ask your Majesty to sign it.”

“One must always dare,” he answered, smilingly.  “May I ‘dare’ to ask you to accept one from me?” He got up from the table and left the room, being absent for a few minutes.  When the door opened again we saw the King standing outside, trying to carry a large picture.  His Majesty had gone up to the room in which the picture hung, and the servant who had taken it from the wall brought it to the door of the dining-room, whence the King carried it in himself.  The mark of the dusty cord still showed on his shoulder.  It was a life-size portrait of himself painted in oil.

He said, “Will you accept this?”

I could not believe my ears.  This for me!  I hesitated.

The Queen said, “My dear, you must take it, since the King desires it.”

“But,” I replied, “how can I?”

Her Majesty answered, “Your husband would not like you to refuse.  Take it!—­you must!” and added, “The ribbon [the blue Order of the Elephant] is beautifully painted”—­as if the rest were not!

The Princess Thyra said, “Papa has only had six portraits painted of himself.  This one is painted by Mr. Shytte.  I don’t think that it is half handsome enough for papa.  Do you?”

“Well,” said the King, “I shall have it sent to your hotel.”  I could not thank his Majesty enough, and I am sure I looked as embarrassed as I felt.

As we were going away the next day, this was my last visit to the Queen.  On bidding me good-by she pressed something into my hand and said, “You leave me so many souvenirs!  I have only one for you, and here it is.”

It was a lovely locket of turquoises.  On opening it I found the Queen’s portrait on one side and the Princess Thyra’s on the other.