"That was Uncle Cal's style.
But I never lost any patience with him, on account of his thinking so much of Marilla.
And she thought just as much of him.
He sent her to the academy over at Birdstail for two years when it took nearly every pound of wool to pay the expenses.
"Along about Tuesday Uncle Cal put out for San Antone on the last wagonload of wool.
Marilla's uncle Ben, who lived in Birdstail, come over and stayed at the ranch while Uncle Cal was gone.
"It was ninety miles to San Antone, and forty to the nearest railroad- station, so Uncle Cal was gone about four days.
I was over at the Double-Elm when he came rolling back one evening about sundown.
And up there in the wagon, sure enough, was a piano or a organ—we couldn't tell which—all wrapped up in woolsacks, with a wagon-sheet tied over it in case of rain.
And out skips Marilla, hollering,
'Oh, oh!' with her eyes shining and her hair a-flying.
'Dad—dad,' she sings out, 'have you brought it—have you brought it?'—and it right there before her eyes, as women will do.
"'Finest piano in San Antone,' says Uncle Cal, waving his hand, proud.
'Genuine rosewood, and the finest, loudest tone you ever listened to.
I heard the storekeeper play it, and I took it on the spot and paid cash down.'
"Me and Ben and Uncle Cal and a Mexican lifted it out of the wagon and carried it in the house and set it in a corner.
It was one of them upright instruments, and not very heavy or very big.
"And then all of a sudden Uncle Cal flops over and says he's mighty sick.
He's got a high fever, and he complains of his lungs.
He gets into bed, while me and Ben goes out to unhitch and put the horses in the pasture, and Marilla flies around to get Uncle Cal something hot to drink.
But first she puts both arms on that piano and hugs it with a soft kind of a smile, like you see kids doing with their Christmas toys.
"When I came in from the pasture, Marilla was in the room where the piano was.
I could see by the strings and woolsacks on the floor that she had had it unwrapped.
But now she was tying the wagon-sheet over it again, and there was a kind of solemn, whitish look on her face.
"'Ain't wrapping up the music again, are you, Marilla?' I asks.
'What's the matter with just a couple of tunes for to see how she goes under the saddle?'
"'Not to-night, Rush,' says she. 'I don't want to play any to-night.
Dad's too sick.
Just think, Rush, he paid three hundred dollars for it —nearly a third of what the wool-clip brought!'
"'Well, it ain't anyways in the neighbourhood of a third of what you are worth,' I told her.
'And I don't think Uncle Cal is too sick to hear a little agitation of the piano-keys just to christen the machine.
"'Not to-night, Rush,' says Marilla, in a way that she had when she wanted to settle things.
"But it seems that Uncle Cal was plenty sick, after all.
He got so bad that Ben saddled up and rode over to Birdstail for Doc Simpson.
I stayed around to see if I'd be needed for anything.
"When Uncle Cal's pain let up on him a little he called Marilla and says to her:
'Did you look at your instrument, honey?
And do you like it?'
"'It's lovely, dad,' says she, leaning down by his pillow;
'I never saw one so pretty.
How dear and good it was of you to buy it for me!'
"'I haven't heard you play on it any yet,' says Uncle Cal; 'and I've been listening.
My side don't hurt quite so bad now—won't you play a piece, Marilla?'
"But no; she puts Uncle Cal off and soothes him down like you've seen women do with a kid.
It seems she's made up her mind not to touch that piano at present.
"When Doc Simpson comes over he tells us that Uncle Cal has pneumonia the worst kind; and as the old man was past sixty and nearly on the lift anyhow, the odds was against his walking on grass any more.
"On the fourth day of his sickness he calls for Marilla again and wants to talk piano.
Doc Simpson was there, and so was Ben and Mrs. Ben, trying to do all they could.
"'I'd have made a wonderful success in anything connected with music,' says Uncle Cal.
'I got the finest instrument for the money in San Antone.