bitter came in only when, going from places to faces, I began
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 he