men who bowed to him somewhat stiffly, and met others who recognized him
plainly enough, but who did not bow. The postman brought daily a bunch
of letters, addressed in various forms of stern commercial handwriting
to George Henry Harrison, but these often lay unopened and neglected on
his desk.

To tell the plain and unpleasant truth, George Henry Harrison had just
become a poor man, a desperately poor man, and already realized that it
was worse for a young man than an old one to rank among those who have
"seen better days." Even after his money had disappeared in what had
promised to be a good investment, he had for a time maintained his
place, because, unfortunately for all concerned, he had been enabled to
get credit; but there is an end to that sort of thing, and now, with his
credit gone after his money, he felt his particular world slipping from
him. He felt a change in himself, a certain on-creeping paralysis of his
social backbone. When practicable he avoided certain of his old friends,
for he could see too plainly written on their faces the fear that he was
about to request a trifling loan, though already his sense of honor,
when he considered his prospects, had forced him to cease asking favors
of the sort. There were faces which he had loved well which he could not
bear to see with the look of mingled commiseration and annoyance he
inspired.

And so it came that at this time George Henry Harrison was acquainted
chiefly with grief--with the wolf at his door. His mail, once blossoming
with messages of good-will and friendliness, became a desert of duns.

"Why is it," George Henry would occasionally ask himself--there was no
one else for him to talk to--"why is it that when a man is sure of his
meals every day he has endless invitations to dine out, but that when