Poor fellow!  I felt sorry for him.  He had been buying comfort at rather too large a price.

The more Brainard cast about in his mind for the means of lifting his notes, the more troubled did he become.

“I might borrow,” said he to himself; “but how am I to pay back the sum?”

To borrow, however, was better than to let his notes be dishonoured.  So Brainard, as the time of payment drew nearer and nearer, made an effort to get from his friends the amount of money needed.

But the effort was not successful.  Some looked surprised when he spoke of having notes to meet; others ventured a little good advice on the subject of prudence in young men who are beginning the world, and hinted that he was living rather too fast.  None were prepared to give him what he wanted.

Troubled, mortified, and humbled, Brainard retired to his comfortable home on the evening before the day on which his note given for the piano was to fall due.  Nearly his last effort to raise money had been made, and he saw nothing but discredit, and what he feared even worse than that before him.  Involved as he was in debt, there was no safety from the sharp talons of the law.  They might strike him at any moment, and involve all in ruin.

Poor Brainard!  How little pleasure did the sight of his large and pleasant house give him as it came in view on his return home.  It stood, rather as a monument of extravagance and folly, than the abode of sweet contentment.

“Three hundred dollars rent!” he murmured.  “Too much for me to pay.”  And sighed deeply.

He entered his beautiful parlour, and gazed around upon the elegant furniture which he had provided as a means of comfort.  All had lost its power to communicate pleasure.  There stood the costly piano, once coveted and afterwards admired.  But it possessed no charm to lay the troubled spirit within him.  He had bought it as a marriage present for his wife, who had little taste for music, and preferred reading or sewing to the blandishment of sweet sounds.  And for this toy—­it was little more in his family—­a debt of four hundred dollars had been created.  Had it brought him an equivalent in comfort?  Far, very far from it.

As Brainard stood in his elegant parlour, with troubled heart and troubled face, his wife came in with a light step.

“George!” she exclaimed on seeing him, her countenance falling and her voice expressing anxious concern.  “What is the matter?  Are you sick?”

“Oh, no!” he replied, affecting a lightness of tone.

“But something is the matter, George,” said the young wife, as she laid her hand upon him and looked earnestly into his face.  “Something troubles you.”

“Nothing of any consequence.  A mere trifle,” returned Brainard, evasively.

“A mere trifle would not cloud your brow as it was clouded a moment since, George.”

“Trifles sometimes affect us, more seriously than graver matters.”  As Brainard said this, the shadows again deepened on his face.