CHAPTER XIV.
THE ARTIST'S SECRET.
Frederic Vernon sat in his studio, toying with his brush. The canvas was before him, but he seemed to be in a brown study.
"What has got into me?" he asked himself, impatiently. "I cannot fix my mind upon my work. I am no longer on the verge of destitution, or compelled to labor for a mere pittance; yet my mind is less at ease than when I hardly knew where the next day's food was to come from."
Vernon's circumstances had improved. He had taken a lighter and more cheerful studio, and moved with his mother into better rooms. He was no longer forced to court the penurious patronage of young ladies like Miss Framley, and, thanks to the influence of Miss Dearborn, he was never without some work in hand. Yet, though he ought to have been cheerful, he found himself restless, and his work often had to wait upon his moods.
"Frederic, what is the matter with you?" asked his mother, earnestly, one day.
"Why do you ask, mother? I am well," he answered, evasively.
"You have lost your appetite, and your mind seems preoccupied. Is anything troubling you?"
"Anything troubling me?" he asked, with a forced smile. "What a strange idea!"