George seated himself in the chair vacated by his father.  He looked across the verdant fields, and mused upon his passionate remarks.  “Well,” thought he, “I was right; shall I allow the god of Mammon to bind me down?  Of what use are riches, unless, whilst we enjoy, we can with them relieve the wants and administer to the necessities of our fellow-men?  Shall we hoard them up, or shall we not rather give with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt misfortune’s scourging rod,—­who are crushed, oppressed and trampled upon, by not a few of their more wealthy neighbors?” In such a train of thought he indulged himself till the hour of dinner arrived.

George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray Bland whilst on a visit to a neighboring town.  He was a young man, possessing those fine qualities of mind that constitute the true gentleman.  His countenance beamed with intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayed vivacity of mind, the possession of which was a sure passport to the best of society.  When the time came that George was to return home to the companionship of his friends, they found that ties of friendship bound them which could not be easily severed, and Ray accepted the invitation of George Greenville to accompany him, and spend a short time at the house of his father.  The week had passed away in a pleasant manner.  The hour of parting had come and gone; The farewell had been taken, the “good-by” had been repeated, when the conversation above mentioned passed between him and his father.

The family and connections of George were rich; those of Ray were poor.  The former lived at ease in the midst of pleasures, and surrounded by all the comforts and conveniences of life; the latter encountered the rough waves of adversity, and was obliged to labor with assiduity, to sustain an equal footing with his neighbors.  Thus were the two friends situated; and old Theodore Greenville scorned the idea of having his son associate with a pauper, as he termed all those who were not the possessors of a certain amount of money,—­without which, in his opinion, none were worthy to associate with the rich.

“Ray is a person not so much to be hated and sneered at as you would suppose,” said George, breaking the silence, and addressing his father at the dinner-table.

“George, I have set my heart against him,” was the reply.

“Then,” continued the first speaker, “I suppose you are not open to conviction.  If I can prove him worthy of your esteem and confidence, will you believe?”

“That cannot be done, perhaps.  You may think him to be a worthy young man; but I discard the old saying that poverty is no disgrace!  I say that it is; and one that can, if its victim choose, be washed away.  Ray Bland is a pauper, that’s my only charge against him; and all the thundering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion, or move me an iota from the stand I have taken,—­which is, now and ever, to reject the company of paupers.  It is my request that you do the same.”