“‘Why, I am the traveling tuner of the Mittlebache Piano Company. Yesterday somebody sent an order to me at the hotel to call at number 413, this street. There is no such number, I see; but as this is 415 I thought I would drop in and see if you were not the lady.’ “‘No, sir; I am not,’ was the answer. “‘By the way, what is the name of your piano?’ “‘Oh, mine is rather an old one. It is called the Wilson,’ “‘You don’t say so. I hardly expected to find one of them in this part of the country; but it is the coming instrument. We carry a line of them at our headquarters. Wilson seems to be the one man who has mastered the art of making a piano which improves by age. The instrument ought to be like a violin in that respect, but you know, of course, that the output of the average piano manufacturer is not.’ “While carrying on this conversation he walked into the house, the lady remarking: “I supposed the make was out of the market. I never hear of it now at all, and this is the only one I ever saw,’ “‘Not at all, not at all; Wilson is conservative, and don’t want to put out any more pianos than he can build on honor. I understand he always has orders ahead for a year. I should have thought you would have noticed in the papers the account of the magnificent ones he has lately put in the White House. He don’t advertise; he don’t have to. No piano manufacturer does until his sales fall off. Ah, yes. One of the early make; but it ought to be a good one, nevertheless.’ “By this time he was on the stool, fingers spread out, and he ran over the scales for a moment, at a great rate, a frown gradually darkening his face. “‘Who in the world tuned this piano?’ he asked. “The lady mentioned the name of the tuner, and added that it was some months since he had done the work. “I should think so. It’s not in tune even a little bit, and sounds as though there was something wrong inside. Don’t you want me to fix it for you? I’ll do the tuning for one dollar, and straighten up everything else for a trifle. I’ve a little time to spare before dinner, as it don’t seem likely that I can find that lady. Only one dollar for the tuning.’ “The colossal cheek of the man, and the low price he named for the work, naturally had their effect, and she looked at him hesitatingly. He turned up his cuffs and asked for a piece of flannel with which to dust off the piano, remarking in a jocular way that he would not charge for doing that. “Unsuspectingly, the young lady hustled off for the flannel, and while she was out of the room he quickly opened the instrument and slipped in a small, artificial mouse’s nest, at the same time snipping a few wires, perhaps doing more damage than he intended. When she returned he was already to show her in what a horrible condition the mice had got her instrument.