"A bookcase would be much prettier there." "But not so tuneful." "A pianola isn't tuneful if you never play it." "True," I said. Celia then became very alluring, and suggested that I might find somebody who would like to be lent a delightful pianola for a year or so by somebody whose delightful wife had her eye on a delightful bookcase. "I might," I said. "Somebody," said Celia, "who isn't supplied with music from below." I found John. He was quite pleased about it, and promised to return the pianola when the war was over. So on Wednesday it went. I was not sorry, because in its silence it was far from beautiful, and we wanted another bookcase badly. But on Tuesday evening--its last hours with us--I had to confess to a certain melancholy. It is sad to part with an old and well-tried friend, particularly when that friend is almost entirely responsible for your marriage. I looked at the pianola and then I said to Celia, "I must play it once again." "Please," said Celia. "The old masterpiece, I suppose?" I said, as I got it out. "Do you think you ought to--now? I don't think I want to hear a charge of the Uhlans--beasts; I want a charge of our own men." "Art," I said grandly, "knows no frontiers." I suppose this has been said by several people several times already, but for the moment both Celia and I thought it was rather clever. So I placed the roll in the pianola, sat down and began to play.... Ah, the dear old tune.... Dash it all! "What's happened?" said Celia, breaking a silence which had become alarming. "I must have put it in wrong," I said. I wound the roll off, put it in again, and tried a second time, pedalling vigorously. Dead silence.... Hush! A note ... another silence ... and then another note.... I pedalled through to the end. About five notes sounded. "Celia," I said, "this is wonderful." It really was wonderful. For the first time in its life my pianola refused to play "The Charge of the Uhlans." It had played it a hundred times while we were at peace with Germany, but when we were at war--no! We had to have a farewell piece. I put in a waltz, and it played it perfectly. Then we said good-bye to our pianola, feeling a reverence for it which we had never felt before. * * * * * You don't believe this? Yet you promised you would ... and I still assure you that it is true. But I admit that the truth is sometimes hard to believe, and the first six persons to whom I told the story assured me frankly that I was a liar. If one is to be called a liar, one may as well make an effort to deserve the name. I made an effort, therefore, with the seventh person. "I put in 'The Charge of the Uhlans,'" I said, "and it played 'God Save the King.'" Unfortunately he was a very patriotic man indeed, and he believed it. So that is how the story is now going about. But you who read this know the real truth of the matter. A. A. M. * * * * *