"Stevenson_Markheim" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stevenson Robert Louis)

The little girl sat down to the piano, and struck a few chords.

"Yes," she said; "it is badly out of tune. Give me the tuning-hammer.
I am sorry," she added, smiling at Oswald Everard, "but I cannot
neglect my duty. Don't wait for me."

"I will wait for you," he said, sullenly; and he went into the balcony
and smoked his pipe, and tried to possess his soul in patience.

When she had faithfully done her work she played a few simple
melodies, such as she knew the old woman would love and understand;
and she turned away when she saw that the listener's eyes were moist.

"Play once again," the old woman whispered. "I am dreaming of
beautiful things."

So the little tuner touched the keys again with all the tenderness of
an angel.

"Tell your daughters," she said, as she rose to say good-bye, "that
the piano is now in good tune. Then they will play to you the next
time they come."

"I shall always remember you, mademoiselle," the old woman said; and,
almost unconsciously, she took the childish face and kissed it.

Oswald Everard was waiting in the hay-field for his companion; and
when she apologised to him for this little professional intermezzo, as
she called it, he recovered from his sulkiness and readjusted his
nerves, which the noise of the tuning had somewhat disturbed.

"It was very good of you to tune the old dame's piano," he said,
looking at her with renewed interest.

"Some one had to do it, of course," she answered, brightly, "and I am
glad the chance fell to me. What a comfort it is to think that the
next time those daughters come to see her they will play to her and
make her very happy! Poor old dear!"

"You puzzle me greatly," he said. "I cannot for the life of me think
what made you choose your calling. You must have many gifts; any one
who talks with you must see that at once. And you play quite nicely,
too."

"I am sorry that my profession sticks in your throat," she answered.
"Do be thankful that I am nothing worse than a tuner. For I might be
something worse--a snob, for instance."

And, so speaking, she dashed after a butterfly, and left him to
recover from her words. He was conscious of having deserved a reproof;