“This is a great day for us,” continued the mother, releasing the ammonia from duty, and beginning to fan vigorously. “Ike has set up as master-builder—only two men, and he does most of the work; but he’s got a house all to himself, and the chance of some bigger ones. We’re having a little celebration. You must excuse the paper on the lounge; I put it down when we unpacked the organ.” “Oh, did the organ come?” said the son. “It surely did, and we’ve played on it already.” “Why, did you get the music? Was it in the box, too?” “Oh, we ’ain’t played _tunes_; we just have been trying it—like to see how it goes. It’s got an awful sweet sound.” “And you ought to hear me play a tune on it, ma.” “You! For the land’s sake!” “Yes, me—that never did play a tune in my life. Anybody can play on that organ.” He turned politely to Pauline, as to include her in the conversation. “You see, Miss Beaumont, we’re a musical family that can’t sing. We can’t, as they say, carry a tune to save our immortal souls. The trouble isn’t with the voice; it’s with our ears. We can hear well enough, too, but we haven’t an ear for music. I took lessons once, trying to learn to sing, but the teacher finally braced up to tell me that he hadn’t the conscience to take my money. ‘What’s the matter?’ says I. ‘You’ve lots of voice,’ says he, ‘but you haven’t a mite of ear.’ ‘Can’t anybody teach me to sing?’ says I. ‘Not unless they hypnotize you, like Trilby,’ says he. So I gave it up. But next I thought I would learn to play; for if there’s one thing ma and the boys and I all love, it’s music. And just then, as luck would have it, this teacher wanted to sell his cabinet organ, which is in perfect shape and a fine instrument. And I was craving to buy it, but I knew it was ridiculous, when none of us can play. But I kept thinking. Finally it came to me. I had seen those zither things with numbers on them; why couldn’t he paint numbers on the keys of the organ just that way, and make music to correspond? And that’s just the way we’ve done. You’re very musical. I—I’ve often listened to your playing. What do you think of it?” He looked at her wistfully. “I think it very ingenious—very,” said Pauline. She had risen now, and she thanked Mrs. Armstrong, and said she must go home. In truth, she was in a panic at the thought of what she had done. Henriette never would understand. Her heart beat guiltily all the way home.