him to his heart's
content. One of the tennis players, Oswald Everard by name, strolled
down to the bank where she was having her frolic.

"Good-afternoon," he said, raising his cap. "I hope the goat is not
worrying you. Poor little fellow! this is his last day of play. He is to
be killed to-morrow for _table d'hote_."

"What a shame!" she said. "Fancy to be killed, and then grumbled at!"

"That is precisely what we do here," he said, laughing. "We grumble at
everything we eat. And I own to being one of the grumpiest; though the
lady in the horse-cloth dress yonder follows close upon my heels."

"She was the lady who was annoyed at me because I tuned the piano," the
little girl said. "Still, it had to be done. It was plainly my duty. I
seemed to have come for that purpose."

"It has been confoundedly annoying having it out of tune," he said.
"I've had to give up singing altogether. But what a strange profession
you have chosen! Very unusual, isn't it?"

"Why, surely not," she answered, amused. "It seems to me that every
other woman has taken to it. The wonder to me is that any one ever
scores a success. Nowadays, however, no one could amass a huge fortune
out of it."

"No one, indeed!" replied Oswald Everard, laughing. "What on earth made
you take to it?"

"It took to me," she said simply. "It wrapped me round with enthusiasm.
I could think of nothing else. I vowed that I would rise to the top of
my profession. I worked day and night. But it means incessant toil for
years if one wants to make any headway."

"Good gracious! I thought it was merely a matter of a few months," he
said, smiling at the little girl.

"A few months!" she repeated, scornfully. "You are speaking the language
of an amateur. No; one has to work faithfully year after year; to grasp
the possibilities, and pass on to greater possibilities. You imagine
what it must feel like to touch the notes, and know that you are keeping
the listeners spellbound; that you are taking them into a fairy-land of
sound, where petty personality is lost in vague longing and regret."

"I confess I had not thought of it in that way," he said, humbly. "I
have only regarded it as a necessary every-day evil; and to be quite
honest with you, I fail to see now how it can inspire enthusiasm. I wish
I could see," he added, looking up at the engaging little figure before
him.

"Never mind," she said, laughing at his distress; "I forgive you. And,
after all, you are n