“What a life for a man to lead,” said my friend, turning to me with a contracted brow and a sober face.  “I sometimes wish myself on an island in mid ocean.  You remember C——?”

“Very well.”

“He quit business a year ago, and bought a farm.  I saw him the other day.  ‘Payson,’ said he, with an air of satisfaction, ’I haven’t seen a bank notice this twelvemonth.’  He’s a happy man!  This note paying is the curse of my life.  I’m forever on the street financiering—­Financiering.  How I hate the word!  But come—­they’ll be waiting dinner for us.  Mrs. Payson is delighted at the thought of seeing you.  How long is it since you were here?  About ten years, if I’m not mistaken.  You’ll find my daughters quite grown up.  Clara is in her twentieth year.  You, of course, recollect her only as a school girl.  Ah me! how time does fly!”

I found my friend living in a handsome house in Franklin street.  It was showily, not tastefully, furnished, and the same might be said of his wife and daughters.  When I last dined with them—­it was many years before—­they were living in a modest, but very comfortable way, and the whole air of their dwelling was that of cheerfulness and comfort.  Now, though their ample parlors were gay with rich Brussels, crimson damask, and brocatelle, there was no genuine home feeling there.  Mrs. Payson, the last time I saw her, wore a mousseline de lain, of subdued colors, a neat lace collar around her neck, fastened with a small diamond pin, the marriage gift of her father.  Her hair, which curled naturally, was drawn behind her ears in a few gracefully falling ringlets.  She needed no other ornament.  Anything beyond would have taken from her the chiefest of her attractions, her bright, animated countenance, in which her friends ever read a heart-welcome.

How changed from this was the rather stately woman, whose real pleasure at seeing an old friend was hardly warm enough to melt through the ice of an imposed formality.  How changed from this the pale, cold, worn face, where selfishness and false pride had been doing a sad, sad work.  Ah! the rich Honiton lace cap and costly cape; the profusion of gay ribbons, and glitter of jewelry; the ample folds of glossy satin; how poor a compensation were they for the true woman I had parted with a few years ago, and now sought beneath these showy adornments in vain!

Two grown-up daughters, dressed almost as flauntingly as their mother, were now presented.  In the artificial countenance of the oldest, I failed to discover any trace of my former friend Clara.