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.