ot the only person who looks upon it as a necessary
evil. My poor old guardian abominated it. He made many sacrifices to
come and listen to me. He knew I liked to see his kind old face, and
that the presence of a real friend inspired me with confidence."

"I should not have thought it was nervous work," he said.

"Try it and see," she answered. "But surely you spoke of singing. Are
you not nervous when you sing?"

"Sometimes," he replied, rather stiffly. "But that is slightly
different." (He was very proud of his singing, and made a great fuss
about it.) "Your profession, as I remarked before, is an unavoidable
nuisance. When I think what I have suffered from the gentlemen of
your profession, I only wonder that I have any brains left. But I am
uncourteous."

"No, no," she said; "let me hear about your sufferings."

"Whenever I have specially wanted to be quiet," he said--and then he
glanced at her childish little face, and he hesitated. "It seems so
rude of me," he added. He was the soul of courtesy, although he was an
amateur tenor singer.

"Please tell me," the little girl said, in her winning way.

"Well," he said, gathering himself together, "it is the one subject on
which I can be eloquent. Ever since I can remember, I have been worried
and tortured by those rascals. I have tried in every way to escape from
them, but there is no hope for me. Yes; I believe that all the tuners in
the universe are in league against me, and have marked me out for their
special prey."

"_All the what_?" asked the little girl, with a jerk in her voice.

"All the tuners, of course," he replied, rather snappishly. "I know
that we cannot do without them; but good heavens! they have no tact, no
consideration, no mercy. Whenever I've wanted to write or read quietly,
that fatal knock has come at the door, and I've known by instinct that
all chance of peace was over. Whenever I've been giving a luncheon
party, the tuner has arrived, with his abominable black bag, and his
abominable card which has to be signed at once. On one occasion I was
just proposing to a girl in her father's library when the tuner struck
up in the drawing-room. I left off suddenly, and fled from the house.
But there is no escape from these fiends; I believe they are swarming
about in the air like so many bacteria. And how, in the name of
goodness, you should deliberately choose to be one of them, and should
be so enthusiastic over your work, puzzles me beyond al