"Nay, my son; you cannot conceal it from your mother's eyes that something is amiss with you. What is it?"
"I am sure I cannot tell, mother."
"Is not your work proceeding well, Frederic?"
"Oh, yes. I had another order to-day."
"You should look happy, then, my son. Compare your position to-day with what it was three months since. Then——"
"I was almost a beggar, mother."
"True."
"Forced to paint portraits for mean, shoddy people for a mere song."
"Yes. But things have changed with you now, Frederic."
"Yes, thanks to Providence—and Grace Dearborn."