"By the way," said 'Zekiel, "while you were away Uncle Ike had our piano tuned and fixed up. It hasn't been played since Alice went to Boston five years ago. But the tuner who came from Boston said it was just as good as ever. So if you hear any noise underneath you this afternoon you will know what it means."
"Music never troubles me," said Quincy, "I play and sing myself."
"Well, I hope you and Alice will have a good time with the piano," remarked 'Zekiel as he left the room.
Quincy went back to his room and wrote a letter to a friend in Boston, asking him to get a certified copy of the war record of Obadiah Strout, Corporal —th Mass. Volunteers, and send it to him at Eastborough Centre as soon as possible. It was many days before that letter reached its destination.
He then sat down in his favorite armchair and began thinking out the details of his aggressive campaign against the singing-master. He had disposed of his enemy in half a dozen pitched battles, when the sound of the piano fell upon his ear.
She was playing. He hoped she was a good musician, for his taste in that art was critical. He had studied the best, and he knew it when he heard it sung or played. The piano was a good one, its tone was full and melodious, and it was in perfect tone.
He listened intently. He looked and saw that he had unintentionally left the door of his room ajar. The parlor door, too, must be open partly, or he could not have heard so plainly. What was that she was playing? Ah! Mendelssohn. Those "Songs Without Words" were as familiar to him as the alphabet. Now it is Beethoven, that beautiful work, "The Moonlight Sonata," she was evidently trying to recall her favorites to mind, for of course she could not be playing by note. Then she strayed into a "valse" by Chopin, and followed it with a dashing galop by some unknown composer. "She is a classical musician," said Quincy to himself, as the first bars of a Rhapsodic Hongroise by Liszt fell upon his ear. "I hope she knows some of the old English ballads and the best of the popular songs," thought Quincy.
As if in answer to his wish she played that sterling old song, "Tis but a Little Faded Flower," and Quincy listened with pleasure to the pure, sweet, soprano voice that rang out full and strong and seemed to reach and permeate every nook and corner in the old homestead.