to seek out the friends and acquaintances of former days.  The familiar faces seemed not wholly familiar now.  A change had been wrought; in some cases a great change, as in that of some weedy girl who had blossomed into fair womanhood.  One could not grieve at that; but in the middle-aged and those who were verging on or past that period, it was impossible not to feel saddened at the difference.  “I see no change in you,” is a lie ready to the lips which would speak some pleasing thing, but it does not quite convince.  Men are naturally brutal, and use no compliments to one another; on the contrary, they do not hesitate to make a joke of wrinkles and grey hairs—­their own and yours.  “But, oh, the difference” when the familiar face, no longer familiar as of old, is a woman’s!  This is no light thing to her, and her eyes, being preternaturally keen in such matters, see not only the change in you, but what is infinitely sadder, the changed reflection of herself.  Your eyes have revealed the shock you have experienced.  You cannot hide it; her heart is stabbed with a sudden pain, and she is filled with shame and confusion; and the pain is but greater if her life has glided smoothly—­if she cannot appeal to your compassion, finding a melancholy relief in that saddest cry:—­

   O Grief has changed me since you saw me last!

For not grief, nor sickness, nor want, nor care, nor any misery or calamity which men fear, is her chief enemy.  Time alone she hates and fears—­insidious Time who has lulled her mind with pleasant flatteries all these years while subtly taking away her most valued possessions, the bloom and colour, the grace, the sparkle, the charm of other years.

Here is a true and pretty little story, which may or may not exactly fit the theme, but is very well worth telling.  A lady of fashion, middle-aged or thereabouts, good-looking but pale and with the marks of care and disillusionment on her expressive face, accompanied by her pretty sixteen-years-old daughter, one day called on an artist and asked him to show her his studio.  He was a very great artist, the greatest portrait-painter we have ever had and he did not know who she was, but with the sweet courtesy which distinguished him through all his long life—­he died recently at a very advanced age—­he at once put his work away and took her round his studio to show her everything he thought would interest her.  But she was restless and inattentive, and by and by leaving the artist talking to her young daughter she began going round by herself, moving constantly from picture to picture.  Presently she made an exclamation, and turning they saw her standing before a picture, a portrait of a girl, staring fixedly at it.  “Oh,” she cried, and it was a cry of pain, “was I once as beautiful as that?” and burst into tears.  She had found the picture she had been looking for, which she had come to see; it had been there twenty to twenty-five years, and the story of it was as follows.