"You are very kind to a stranger. Give me your address, that I may Send it to you."
Paul did so, adding:
"Don't put yourself to any trouble. There is no hurry. Wait till it is convenient."
"Thank you again," said the young man, recovering his cheerfulness. "I hope some time to return the favor. I am an artist, and I will paint your portrait for half price, whenever you get ready to give me a sitting."
"Thank you," answered Paul, laughing. "I must wait for that till I am a little richer."
Frederic Vernon, for this was his name, had settled in Chicago six months previously, with his invalid mother, hoping to make a fair living as an artist, for he was a clever portrait painter, but he met the usual fortune of young men of merit who establish themselves in a large city without influential friends. Orders came in slowly, and he was obliged to accept paltry prices, far below the value of his work. Yet he would not have complained if he could have obtained enough work, and been promptly paid for such as he did.
On the day subsequent to his adventure in the cars, chance, or let us say Providence, brought him a liberal patroness.
Grace Dearborn, returning from a shopping excursion, had taken a seat in one of the city horse-cars when her attention was attracted by the conversation of two young ladies who were sitting near her.
"That's a fine portrait of yours, Sarah," said one.
"Isn't it?" said the other, complacently. "Pa says it is as well painted as if we had employed a tip-top artist."