days subsequently I saw my friend and his wife riding out in a
handsome vehicle, drawn by a gay horse.

"Taking their comfort," said I, as I paused and looked upon the
happy young couple.

Not long after, I saw them dashing off again to enjoy an afternoon's
ride. Next, I met them at a fashionable concert.

"Have you been to the opera yet?" asked Brainard, leaning forward to
the seat that I occupied just in front of him.

"No," was my answer.

"Then there is a treat in store for you. We go twice, and sometimes
oftener, every week. Truffi, Benedetti, Rosi--oh! they are
enchanting."

"Rather expensive," said I.

"It does cost something," and Brainard shrugged his shoulders. "But
I think it's money well spent. You know that I go in for the
comforts of life."

And he leaned back, while I thought I perceived a slight shadow flit
across his face. A singer came forward at the moment, and no more
was said.

"It is possible," thought I, "in seeking after comfort, to get into
the wrong road. I am afraid my young friends are about committing