“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 of view; but we have had a splendid morning together, and I have enjoyed every minute of it.  And to-morrow I go on my way.”

“And to-morrow you go,” he repeated.  “Can it not be the day after to-morrow?”

“I am a bird of passage,” she said, shaking her head.  “You must not seek to detain me.  I have taken my rest, and off I go to other climes.”

They had arrived at the hotel, and Oswald Everard saw no more of his companion until the evening, when she came down rather late for table d’hote.  She hurried over her dinner and went into the salon.  She closed the door, and sat down to the piano, and lingered there without touching the keys; once or twice she raised her hands, and then she let them rest on the notes, and, half unconsciously, they began to move and make sweet music; and then they drifted into Schumann’s “Abendlied,” and then the little girl played some of his “Kinderscenen,” and some of his “Fantasie Stucke,” and some of his songs.

Her touch and feeling were exquisite, and her phrasing betrayed the true musician.  The strains of music reached the dining-room, and, one by one, the guests came creeping in, moved by the music and anxious to see the musician.