“That must be mother dusting the drawing-room,” I thought. The unaccustomed sound of the old piano startled me. The vocal chords behind the green silk bosom,—you only discovered it was not a bronze silk bosom by poking a fold aside,—had become as thin and tuneless as a dried old woman’s. Age had yellowed the teeth of my mother’s little piano, and shrunken its spindle legs. Poor old thing, it could but screech in answer to Lettie’s fingers flying across it in scorn, so the prim, brown lips were always closed save to admit the duster. Now, however, the little old maidish piano began to sing a tinkling Victorian melody, and I fancied it must be some demure little woman with curls like bunches of hops on either side of her face, who was touching it. The coy little tune teased me with old sensations, but my memory would give me no assistance. As I stood trying to fix my vague feelings, Rebecca came in to remove the cloth from the table. “Who is playing, Beck?” I asked. “Your mother, Cyril.” “But she never plays. I thought she couldn’t.” “Ah,” replied Rebecca, “you forget when you was a little thing sitting playing against her frock with the prayer-book, and she singing to you. _You_ can’t remember her when her curls was long like a piece of brown silk. _You_ can’t remember her when she used to play and sing, before Lettie came and your father was——” Rebecca turned and left the room. I went and peeped in the drawing-room. Mother sat before the little brown piano, with her plump, rather stiff fingers moving across the keys, a faint smile on her lips. At that moment Lettie came flying past me, and flung her arms round mother’s neck, kissing her and saying: “Oh, my Dear, fancy my Dear playing the piano! Oh, Little Woman, we never knew you could!” “Nor can I,” replied mother laughing, disengaging herself. “I only wondered if I could just strum out this old tune; I learned it when I was quite a girl, on this piano. It was a cracked one then; the only one I had.” “But play again, dearie, do play again. It was like the clinking of lustre glasses, and you look so quaint at the piano. Do play, my dear!” pleaded Lettie. “Nay,” said my mother, “the touch of the old keys on my fingers is making me sentimental—you wouldn’t like to see me reduced to the tears of old age?” “Old age!” scolded Lettie, kissing her again. “You are young enough to play little romances. Tell us about it mother.” “About what, child?” “When you used to play.” “Before my fingers were stiff with fifty odd years? Where have you been, Cyril, that you weren’t in to dinner?” “Only down to Strelley Mill,” said I. “Of course,” said mother coldly. “Why ‘of course’?” I asked. “And you came away as soon as Em went to school?” said Lettie. “I did,” said I. They were cross with me, these two women. After I had swallowed my little resentment I said: “They would have me stay to dinner.” My mother vouchsafed no reply. “And has the great George found a girl yet?” asked Lettie.