“But Marilla stands there with big tears rolling down from her eyes and says nothing. And then she runs over and slips her arm under Uncle Cal’s neck and hugs him tight.
“‘Why, last night, dad,’ we heard her say, ‘I played ever so much. Honest—I have been playing it. And it’s such a splendid instrument, you don’t know how I love it. Last night I played “Bonnie Dundee” and the “Anvil Polka” and the “Blue Danube”—and lots of pieces. You must surely have heard me playing a little, didn’t you, dad? I didn’t like to play loud when you was so sick.’
“‘Well, well,’ says Uncle Cal, ‘maybe I did. Maybe I did and forgot about it. My head is a little cranky at times. I heard the man in the store play it fine. I’m mighty glad you like it, Marilla. Yes, I believe I could go to sleep a while if you’ll stay right beside me till I do.’
‘‘There was where Marilla had me guessing. Much as she thought of that old man, she wouldn’t strike a note on that piano that he’d bought her. I couldn’t imagine why she told him she’d been playing it, for the wagon-sheet hadn’t ever been off of it since she put it back on the same day it come. I knew she could play a little anyhow, for I’d once heard her snatch some pretty fair dance-music out of an old piano at the Charco Largo Ranch.
“Well, in about a week the pneumonia got the best of Uncle Cal. They had the funeral over at Birds-
