life, to which all are entitled. Don't you?"

I was looking at a handsome new rose-wood piano when this question
was addressed to me, and thinking about its probable cost.

"We should all make the best of what we have," I answered, a little
evasively; "and seek to be as comfortable as possible under all
circumstances."

"Exactly. That's my doctrine," said Brainard. "I'm not rich, and
therefore don't expect to live in a palace, and have every thing
around me glittering with silver and gold; but, out of the little I
possess, shall endeavour to obtain the largest available dividend of
comfort. Ain't I right?"

"Perhaps so."

"You speak coldly," said my friend. "Don't you agree with me? Should
not every man try to be as comfortable as his means will permit?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Of course he should. Some men set a value upon money above every
thing else, and sacrifice all comfort to its accumulation; but I
don't belong to that class. Money is a good gift, because it is the
means of procuring natural blessings. I receive it thankfully, and
use it wisely. You see how I am beginning life."

"I do."

"Well, what do you think of it?"

By this time my observation of things had become more particular,
and I saw many evidences of expenditures that indicated a lavish
spirit.

"What rent do you pay?" I asked.

"Three hundred."

I shook my head.

"Too much?" said Brainard.

"I think so."

"Perhaps it is a little high. But you can't get a genteel,
comfortable house, in a good neighbourhood, for any thing less."

As it was my first visit to the young couple, who were but a few
weeks past their honey-moon, I did not feel like questioning the
propriety of my friend's conduct to the serious extent he was about
involving himself; and so evaded replying to this excuse for taking
at least a hundred dollars more rent upon himself than he was
justified in doing by his circumstances, he being simply a clerk,
with a salary of one thousand dollars.

"Rents are high," was my apparently indifferent answer.

"Too high," said he. "A man who wants a pleasant house has to pay
for it. This is my experience."

The subject of conversation changed; I passed an agreeable evening;
at the close of which I left my friend and his lovely young bride in
their comfortable home.

What I had seen and heard during the few hours spent with Brainard
made me fear that he was about committing a too common error. His
ideas of comfort were n