"I should like to do more. Tell me—what can I do for you both?"
"I was about to tell you. Are you willing to call on my poor boy, to let him see you once more? A few kind words would do him much good, and perhaps turn the scales in his favor."
"I will go—I will go at once, if you wish me."
"How kind you are! No wonder my poor boy loves you. Oh, Miss Dearborn, I wish you were poor like ourselves, so that Frederic might have some hope of gaining your hand. I know of course it is useless. He is a poor artist—you a rich heiress, and a favorite in society."
Grace did not reply, but speedily made herself ready and accompanied Mrs. Vernon to her lodgings.
They were modest, but no longer humble. As the young artist prospered he took care to remove his mother from the poor home which they had been forced to occupy, and were at present in neat apartments, in a respectable part of the city.
"I will go in and prepare him," said the mother.
Grace remained waiting in the outer room till, summoned by Mrs. Vernon, she entered the sick-chamber.
The artist was reclining on the bed, his face thinned, and his eyes unnaturally bright with fever. Over his wasted face there came a look of glad rapture as he saw the one he loved enter the room.
"Grace—Miss Dearborn!" he cried. "This is, indeed, kind. Mother, you did not tell me who had come to see me."