Frank Belmont was a stranger in Boston—a New Yorker—immensely rich and fashionable, but his reputation had not preceded him, and Charley Hastings was the only man who knew him in New England. He procured an introduction to the beauty from one of the managers, and soon danced and talked himself into her good graces. In fact, it was a clear case of love at first sight on both sides.
The enamoured pair were sitting apart, enjoying a most delightful tête-à-tête. Suddenly Belmont heaved a deep sigh.
"Why do you sigh, Mr. Belmont?" asked the fair Julia, somewhat pleased with this proof of sensibility. "Is not this a gay scene?"
"Alas! yes," replied Belmont, gloomily; "but fate does not permit me to mingle habitually in scenes like this. They only make my ordinary life doubly gloomy—and even here I deem to see the shadow of a fiend waving me away. What right have I to be here?"
"What fiend do you allude to?" asked Miss Heathcote, with increasing interest.
"A fiend hardly presentable in good society," replied Belmont, bitterly. "One could tolerate a Mephistophiles—a dignified fiend, with his pockets full of money—but my tormentor, if personified, would appear with seedy boots and a shocking bad hat."
"How absurd!"
"It is too true," sighed Belmont, "and the name of this fiend is Poverty!"
"Are you poor?"
"Yes, madam. I am poor, and when I would fain render myself agreeable in the eyes of beauty—in the eyes of one I could love, this fiend whispers me, 'Beware! you have nothing to offer her but love in a cottage.'"