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.

A little while we talked formally, and with some constraint all
round; then, as the dinner had been waiting us, and was now served,
we proceeded to the dining-room. I di