stly piano,
once coveted and afterwards admired. But it possessed no charm to
lay the troubled spirit within him. He had bought it as a marriage
present for his wife, who had little taste for music, and preferred
reading or sewing to the blandishment of sweet sounds. And for this
toy--it was little more in his family--a debt of four hundred
dollars had been created. Had it brought him an equivalent in
comfort? Far, very far from it.

As Brainard stood in his elegant parlour, with troubled heart and
troubled face, his wife came in with a light step.

"George!" she exclaimed on seeing him, her countenance falling and
her voice expressing anxious concern. "What is the matter? Are you
sick?"

"Oh, no!" he replied, affecting a lightness of tone.

"But something is the matter, George," said the young wife, as she
laid her hand upon him and looked earnestly into his face.
"Something troubles you."

"Nothing of any consequence. A mere trifle," returned Brainard,
evasively.

"A mere trifle would not cloud your brow as it was clouded a moment
since, George."

"Trifles sometimes affect us, more seriously than graver matters."
As Brainard said this, the shadows again deepened on his face.

"If you have any troubles, dear, let me share them, and they will be
lighter." Anna spoke with much tenderness.

"I hardly think your sharing my present trouble will lighten it,"
said Brainard, forcing a smile, "unless, in so doing, you can put
some four hundred dollars into my empty pockets."

Anna withdrew a pace from her husband, and looked at him doubtingly.

"Do you speak in earnest?" said she.

"In very truth I do. To-morrow I have four hundred dollars to pay;
but where the money is to come from, is more than I can tell."

"How in the world has that happened?" inquired Mrs. Brainard.

Involuntarily the eyes of her husband wandered towards the piano.
She saw their direction. Her own eyes fell to the floor, and she
stood silent for some moments--silent, but hurriedly thoughtful.
Then looking up, she said, in a hesitating voice--

"We can do without that." And she pointed towards the piano.

"Without what?" asked Brainard, quickly.

"The piano. It cost four hundred dollars. Sell it."

"Never!"

"Why not?"

"Don't mention it, Anna. Sell your piano! It shall never be done."

"But, George"--

"It's no use to talk of that, Anna; I will not listen to it."

And so the wife was silenced.

Little comfort had the young