card-trays, piled high with invitations—were contributions from the forgiving sex to the unrequiting bachelor.
Surveying his apartment with a complacent air, the Colonel sank into his easy fauteuil, and drawing off his gloves leisurely, said—
"No man has more friends than I have—never did I lose one—never did I sign a bill. Your father pursued a different policy—he signed many bills—and lost many friends."
Lionel, much distressed, looked down, and evidently desired to have done with the subject. Not so the Colonel. That shrewd man, though he did not preach, had a way all his own, which was perhaps quite as effective as any sermon by a fash- ionable layman can be to an impatient youth.
"Yes," resumed the Colonel, "it is the old story. One al- ways begins by being security to a friend. The discredit of the thing is familiarized to one's mind by the false show of generous confidence in another. Then what you have done for a friend, a friend should do for you—a hundred or two would be useful now—you are sure to repay it in three months. To Youth the Future seems safe as the Bank of England, and distant as the Peaks of Himalaya. You pledge your honor that in three months you will release your friend. The three months expire. To release the one friend, you catch hold of another—the bill is renewed, premium and interest thrown into the next pay-day —soon the account multiplies, and with it the honor dwindles —your name circulates from hand to hand on the back of doubt- ful paper—your name, which, in all money transactions, should grow higher and higher each year you live, falling down every month like the shares in a swindling speculation. You begin by what you call trusting a friend, that is, aiding him to self- destruction—buying him arsenic to clear his complexion; you end by dragging all near you into your own abyss, as a drowning man would clutch at his own brother. Lionel Haughton, the saddest expression I ever saw on your father's face was when— when—but you shall hear the story."
"No, Sir; spare me. Since you so insist on it, I will give the promise—it is enough; and my father—"
"Was as honorable as you when he first signed his name to a friend's bill; and perhaps promised to do so no more as reluct- antly as you do. You had better let me say on; if I stop now, you will forget all about it by this day twelvemonth; if I go on, you will never forget. There are other examples besides your father. I am about to name one."
