Mrs. Bent's hands trembled; she would have given her life to have things turn out the way Eleanor wanted they should. Even now there was another happiness approaching, of which Eleanor knew nothing. Going one day to Thomasina's house, Mrs. Bent had asked Thomasina to do a service for her and Eleanor. "I don't like to put you to trouble," she explained nervously. "I want to sell my piano." "Yes?" said Thomasina. Was poor little Mrs. Bent in financial difficulties? It would be a great pity if Eleanor had to discontinue her lessons. "That is, not exactly to sell it, but to change it." "Yes," said Thomasina, who never interrupted or tried to complete the sentences of other persons. "For a better one." "Yes." Thomasina saw that her guess was wrong. "But I don't know much about--about such things." Mrs. Bent had meant to say about pianos, but she suddenly could not remember whether the i was long or short. She knew that one or the other was very wrong, but she could not remember which she had used a moment ago. "I'll be very glad to help you." Mrs. Bent's relief showed on her face and she breathed a long sigh. "What kind of piano do you want, Mrs. Bent?" "A large one," answered Mrs. Bent, knowing now certainly that she had the wrong word. "A grand piano?" "That is it, exactly." Thomasina hazarded the name of the best by way of elimination. "That is it," said Mrs. Bent. "If you will pick it out when you go to the city, the money part will be fixed. It is a Commencement present to her." Mrs. Bent rose to go. She was invited to stay longer, and she would have liked to sit forever in the pleasant room, but she was afraid. When she had gone, Thomasina stood for a moment frowning, then bit her lip. She wondered a good deal about Mrs. Bent, and she was to wonder still more when she saw the large check in the hand of the salesman in Baltimore from whose stock she selected the finest piano. Not only the amount, but the signature of the check astonished her. The piano, now at the railroad station upon its side, its shining rosewood swathed in many folds of flannel and canvas and rubber, was to be delivered while Eleanor was at Commencement. If she had dreamed of its presence, her cheeks would have been still redder, her shining eyes still happier. She laid her black gown over her arm and took her black cap by its tassel. "Get your bonnet, mother." A glance at the clock frightened Mrs. Bent. Eleanor should be off at once or she would meet the men with the piano. Mrs. Bent had given explicit charges as to the time of its delivery. She was to let the carriers, whose chief she knew to be trustworthy, into the house before she started. "I'm not ready yet. You go quick, and I'll come right away." "You'll surely wait for me afterwards?" "Oh, yes."