"Say on, mother."
"You love Grace Dearborn."
He started, and his face flushed.
"What makes you think that, mother?" he asked, slowly.
"Your face would tell me if I had no other evidence. Is it not true?"
"Well, mother, you have my secret," he answered, after a pause. "You know my disease. Now canst thou minister to a mind diseased?"
"Perhaps so."
"I know what you would say. You would tell me to root out the foolish fancy from my heart, and devote myself unflinchingly to my art. Well, mother, I have tried it, and I have failed."
"You mistake me, Frederic. If you feel that your love for this young lady is deep and earnest, such a love as comes but once in a life-time, let her know of it, and give her a chance to accept or reject it."
"Mother, are you mad? Do you know that Grace Dearborn is a wealthy heiress—that she moves in the most exclusive society of Chicago—that she is admired by many who are rated as eligible matches?"