Stories by English Authors: Germany (Selected by Scribners) | Page 6

very sorry about it. What could you know of Miss Thyra
Flowerdew?"
"Well, considering that she is in my profession, of course I know
something about her," said the little girl.
"Confound it all!" he said, rather rudely. "Surely there is some
difference between the bellows-blower and the organist."
"Absolutely none," she answered; "merely a variation of the original
theme!"
As she spoke she knocked at the door of the chalet, and asked the old
dame to give them some milk. They sat in the Stube, and the little girl
looked about, and admired the spinning-wheel and the quaint chairs
and the queer old jugs and the pictures on the walls.
"Ah, but you shall see the other room," the old peasant woman said;
and she led them into a small apartment which was evidently intended
for a study. It bore evidences of unusual taste and care, and one could
see that some loving hand had been trying to make it a real sanctum of
refinement. There was even a small piano. A carved book-rack was
fastened to the wall.
The old dame did not speak at first; she gave her guests time to recover
from the astonishment which she felt they must be experiencing; then
she pointed proudly to the piano.

"I bought that for my daughters," she said, with a strange mixture of
sadness and triumph. "I wanted to keep them at home with me, and I
saved and saved, and got enough money to buy the piano. They had
always wanted to have one, and I thought they would then stay with me.
They liked music and books, and I knew they would be glad to have a
room of their own where they might read and play and study; and so I
gave them this corner."
"Well, mother," asked the little girl, "and where are they this
afternoon?"
"Ah," she answered sadly, "they did not care to stay; but it was natural
enough, and I was foolish to grieve. Besides, they come to see me."
"And then they play to you?" asked the little girl, gently.
"They say the piano is out of tune," the old dame said. "I don't know.
Perhaps you can tell."
The little girl sat down to the piano, and struck a few chords.
"Yes," she said; "it is badly out of tune. Give me the tuning-hammer. I
am sorry," she added, smiling at Oswald Everard, "but I cannot neglect
my duty. Don't wait for me."
"I will wait for you," he said, sullenly; and he went into the balcony
and smoked his pipe, and tried to possess his soul in patience.
When she had faithfully done her work she played a few simple
melodies, such as she knew the old woman would love and understand;
and she turned away when she saw that the listener's eyes were moist.
"Play once again," the old woman whispered. "I am dreaming of
beautiful things."
So the little tuner touched the keys again with all the tenderness of an
angel.
"Tell your daughters," she said, as she rose to say good-bye, "that the

piano is now in good tune. Then they will play to you the next time
they come."
"I shall always remember you, mademoiselle," the old woman said; and,
almost unconsciously, she took the childish face and kissed it.
Oswald Everard was waiting in the hay-field for his companion; and
when she apologised to him for this little professional intermezzo, as
she called it, he recovered from his sulkiness and readjusted his nerves,
which the noise of the tuning had somewhat disturbed.
"It was very good of you to tune the old dame's piano," he said, looking
at her with renewed interest.
"Some one had to do it, of course," she answered, brightly, "and I am
glad the chance fell to me. What a comfort it is to think that the next
time those daughters come to see her they will play to her and make her
very happy! Poor old dear!"
"You puzzle me greatly," he said. "I cannot for the life of me think
what made you choose your calling. You must have many gifts; any
one who talks with you must see that at once. And you play quite
nicely, too."
"I am sorry that my profession sticks in your throat," she answered.
"Do be thankful that I am nothing worse than a tuner. For I might be
something worse--a snob, for instance."
And, so speaking, she dashed after a butterfly, and left him to recover
from her words. He was conscious of having deserved a reproof; and
when at last he overtook her he said as much, and asked for her kind
indulgence.
"I forgive you," she said, laughing. "You and I are not looking at things
from the same point