Well," replied Ezekiel, "she isn't used to heavy dinners at noon, so
she had a lunch up in her room. I am going over to West Eastborough this
afternoon with the boys to see some cows that 'Bias Smith has got to
sell. The sun is coming out and I guess it will be pleasant the rest of
the day."

"'Bias Smith?" asked Quincy.

"His name is Tobias," said Ezekiel, "but everybody calls him 'Bias."

"I have heard of him," said Quincy. "You just mention my name to him,
Mr. Pettengill, and say I am coming over some day with Mr. Stackpole to
see him."

'Zekiel smiled. "Going to take a hand yourself?" asked he.

"Yes," said Quincy, "the other fellow has been playing tricks with the
pack so long that I think I shall throw down a card or two myself, and I
may trump his next lead."

"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 t