However, of course, as usual Mr. Sk--n--st--n, if ever he does consent to do a good action must go spoiling it by doing the thing by halves; for instead of going and ordering me one of Broadwood’s very best new grand uprights, he must needs go poking his nose into all the filthy dirty salerooms in London, until he fell in with a trumpery second-hand cottage, and which I had to have French polished all outside, and thoroughly repaired and done up in, before I could do anything with it, for I declare when I came to go over it, half of the keys of the cottage were of no use. Still, thank goodness, it was a Broadwood, although no one would have thought it, if they had seen it in the state in which it came home to me; for a Broadwood, I think it had the most disgraceful legs I ever saw in all my life, and it wasn’t until I had had the whole thing thoroughly cleaned and put in order, that it was fit to be seen in any respectable person’s dining-room. When I had spent nearly a fortune upon it, I must confess that it wasn’t so bad after all; indeed, no one would have known it again, and I’ve over and over again seen very many worse in the houses of persons far better off in the world than ourselves, but whose names, for many reasons, of course, I’m not going to state. Certainly its tone was heavenly, and, upon my word, when it came home newly done up, and I ran over “The Soldier Tired,” I declare it sounded for all the world like the music of the spheres--such grandeur in the lower notes--such sweetness in the upper ones--such power when you were impassioned--such plaintiveness when you were sentimental--that I declare it seemed to go right through me, and be more than I could bear, for it would move me to tears; and as I playfully ran up and down the notes, really and truly I felt myself lifted from my seat and carried, without knowing it, into another region--Oh! it was such a little duck of a cottage, and such a darling little pet of a dear Broadwood, the reader can’t tell!