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 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