“Oh, that I had never bought it!” he at length exclaimed, mentally, in the bitterness of his feelings.  And then he half chid himself for the extorted declaration.

Nearly the whole of the morning was spent in the vain attempt to borrow the needed sum.  But there was no one to lend him four hundred dollars.  At length, in his desperation, he forced himself to apply for a quarter’s advance of salary.

“No doubt,” said he, within himself, “that the holder of the note will take two hundred and fifty dollars on account, and give me time on the balance.”

About the ways and means of living for the next three months, after absorbing his salary in advance, he did not pause to think.  He was just in that state of mind in which he could say, with feeling, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”  Unhappily, his effort to raise money by this expedient failed.  His application was received coldly, and in a way to mortify him exceedingly.

Half desperate, and half despairing, Brainard started for his home about one o’clock, his usual hour for dining.  What was he to do?  He turned his thoughts to the right and to the left, groping about like a man in the dark.  But no light broke in upon his mental vision.

“It will not do to meet Anna in this way,” said he, as he approached his own door.  “I left her with a troubled countenance in the morning.  Now I must force an assumed cheerfulness.”

He entered, and was moving along the passage, when Anna came out through one of the parlour doors to meet him, and drawing her arm through his, said, in a lively tone,—­

“Come, George, I want to play for you a favourite piece.  I’ve been practising it for the last hour.”

And she drew him into the parlour, and, taking her seat at the piano, commenced running her fingers over the keys.  Brainard stood and listened to the music until the piece was finished, trying, but in vain, to feel an interest in the performance.

“How do you like that?” said the wife, with animation, lifting her sparkling eyes to the face of her husband, which was serious, in spite of all he could do to give it a better expression.

“Beautifully performed,” replied Brainard.

“And do you really think so?” said Anna, as she arose and leaning on his arm again, drew him into the next room.

“Certainly, I do.”

“Didn’t you think the instrument a little out of tune?” asked Anna.

“No; it struck me as being in better tune than when you played last evening.”

“It’s a fine instrument, certainly.  I prize it very much.”

Brainard sighed faintly.

“Oh!  How about your four hundred dollars?” said Anna, as if the thought had just occurred to her.  “Did you get the money?”

A change was apparent in the manner of Brainard.

“No, Anna,” he replied, with assumed calmness.

“Do you want it badly?”