come over and stayed at the ranch while Uncle Cal was gone.
“It was ninety miles to San Antone, and forty to the nearest railroad-station, so Uncle Cal was gone about four days. I was over at the Double-Elm when he came rolling back one evening about sundown. And up there in the wagon, sure enough, was a piano or a organ — we couldn’t tell which — all wrapped up in woolsacks, with a wagon-sheet tied over it in case of rain. And out skips Marilla, hollering, ‘Oh, oh!’ with her eyes shining and her hair aflying. ‘Dad — dad,’ she sings out, ‘have you brought it — have you brought it?’ — and it right there before her eyes, as women will do.
“‘Finest piano in San Antone,’ says Uncle Cal, waving his hand, proud. ‘Genuine rosewood, and the finest, loudest tone you ever listened to. I heard the storekeeper play it, and I took it on the spot and paid cash down.’
“Me and Ben and Uncle Cal and a Mexican lifted it out of the wagon and carried it in the house and set it in a corner. It was one of them upright instruments, and not very heavy or very big.
“And then all of a sudden Uncle Cal flops over and says he’s mighty sick. He’s got a high fever, and he complains of his lungs. He gets into bed, while me and Ben goes out to unhitch and put the horses in the pasture, and Marilla flies around to get Uncle Cal something hot to drink. But first she puts both arms on that piano and hugs it with a soft kind of a smile, like you see kids doing with their Christmas toys.
“When I came in from the pasture, Marilla was in the room where the piano was. I could see by the strings and woolsacks on the floor that she had had it unwrapped. But now she was tying the wagon-sheet over it again, and there was a kind of solemn, whitish look on her face.
“‘Ain’t wrapping up the music again, are you, Marilla?’ I asks. ‘What’s the matter with just a couple of tunes for to see how she goes under the saddle?’
“‘Not tonight, Rush,’ says she. ‘I don’t want to play any tonight. Dad’s too sick. Just think, Rush, he paid three hundred dollars for it — nearly a third of what the wool-clip brought!’
“‘Well, it ain’t anyways in the neighbourhood of a third of what you are worth,’ I told her. ‘And I don’t think Uncle Cal is too sick to hear a little agitation of the piano-keys just to christen the machine.
“‘Not tonight, Rush,’ says Marilla, in a way that she had when she wanted to settle things.
“But it seems that Uncle Cal was plenty sick, after all. He got so bad that Ben saddled up and rode over to Birdstail for Doc Simpson. I stayed around to see if I’d be needed for anything.
“When Uncle Cal’s pain let up on him a little he called Marilla and says to her: ‘Did you look at your instrument, honey? And do you like it?’
“‘It’s lovely, dad,’ says she, leaning down by his pillow; ‘I never saw one so pretty. How dear and good it was of you to buy it for me!’
“‘I haven’t heard you play on it any yet,’ says Uncle Cal; ‘and I’ve been listening. My side don’t hurt quite so bad now — won’t you play a piece, Marilla?’
“But no; she puts Uncle Cal off and soothes him down like you’ve seen women do with a kid. It seems she’s made up her mind not to touch that piano at present.
“When Doc Simpson comes over he tells us that Uncle Cal has pneumonia the worst kind; and as the old man was past sixty and nearly on the lift anyhow, the odds was against his walking on grass any more.
“On the fourth day of his sickness he calls for Marilla again and wants to talk piano. Doc Simpson was there, and so was Ben and Mrs. Ben, trying to do all they could.
“‘I’d have made a wonderful success in anything connected with music,’ says Uncle Cal. ‘I got the finest instrument for the money in San Antone. Ain’t that piano all right in every respect, Marilla?’
“‘It’s just perfect, dad,’ says she. ‘It’s got the finest tone I ever heard. But don’t you think you could sleep a little while now, dad?’
“‘No, I don’t,’ says Uncle Cal. ‘I want to hear that piano. I don’t believe you’ve even tried it yet. I went all the way to San Antone and picked it out for you myself. It took a third of the fall clip to buy it; but I don’t mind that if it makes my good girl happier. Won’t you play a little bit for dad, Marilla?’
“Doc Simpson beckoned Marilla to one side and recommended her to do what Uncle Cal wanted, so it would get him quieted. And her uncle Ben and his wife asked her, too.
“‘Why not hit out a tune or two with the soft pedal on?’ I asks Marilla. ‘Uncle Cal has begged you so often. It would please him a good deal to hear you touch up the piano he’s bought for you. Don’t you think you might?’
“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 it 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 Birdstail, and all of us went over. I brought Marilla back home in my buckboard. Her uncle Ben and his wife were going to stay there a few days with her.
“That night Marilla takes me in the room where the piano was, while the others were out on the gallery.
“‘Come here, Rush,’ says she; ‘I want you to see this now.’
“She unties the rope, and drags off the wagon-sheet.
“If you ever rode a saddle without a horse, or fired off a gun that wasn’t loaded, or took a drink out of an empty bottle, why, then you might have been able to scare an opera or two out of the instrument Uncle Cal had bought.
“Instead of a piano, it was one of the machines they’ve invented to play the piano with. By itself it was about as musical as the holes of a flute without the flute.
“And that was the piano that Uncle Cal had selected; and standing by it was the good, fine, all-wool girl that never let him know it.
“And what you heard playing a while ago,” concluded Mr. Kinney, “was that same deputy-piano machine;
