Grace felt that her aunt's strange resolution to marry was likely to affect her seriously. Hitherto she had formed one of her aunt's household, and bearing a part of the expenses, had lived under her aunt's protection. She felt that should her aunt marry Major Ashton this arrangement must be broken up. She was not willing to live under the same roof with Major Ashton, with that gentleman holding toward her the embarrassing relation of uncle. Nothing could be further from the truth than her aunt's hypothesis that Grace was suffering from jealousy and mortified pride. So far from it, she felt an active dislike for the major, and regarded him with contempt as an unscrupulous fortune hunter.

When the question of her own future came up before her, she was perplexed, and with reason. Save Mrs. Sheldon, she had no near relatives, and she did not feel inclined to set up an independent establishment for herself, and live alone—that is, until she should marry. At present there was no prospect of marriage. Of suitors who had offered themselves there was no lack, but on none of them did she for a moment seriously think. So far as they were concerned she was heart-whole. Had she never met one to whom she could fancy herself happily united? If so, she had not admitted it even to herself.

On the day after the conversation with her aunt, she was sitting idly at her desk, her mind occupied by the embarrassments of her position, when the servant entered the room.

"Miss Grace," she said, "there is a lady in the parlor who wishes to see you."

"A lady? Who is it? Did she give you her card?"

"No, Miss Grace."

"Did you ever see her before?"

"She has never been here before. I think, Miss Grace," added the girl, hesitating, "that it is some one in trouble."

"What makes you think so, Jane?"

"Because she looks so sad."

"Does she seem like a poor woman?"

"She was dressed very respectably," answered Jane, who appeared to be in doubt how to answer the question.

"Tell her I will be down directly," said Grace, who could not find it in her heart to refuse a person in trouble, though she suspected there would be an appeal for money. As she was known to be an heiress, such applications were of very common occurrence.

Five minutes later Grace entered the drawing-room.

Seated on the sofa was a woman, dressed in sober tints, and apparently rather past middle life.

She rose as Grace entered, but in the imperfect light the young lady did not recognize her.

"Miss Dearborn, you do not remember me?" she said.

"I cannot at this moment recall you," was the answer.

"I am Mrs. Vernon."

"The artist's mother," said Grace, quickly.

"The same."

"I hope all is well with you—and him! You look sad."

"I have reason to be, Miss Dearborn. My poor son is very sick. I do not know if he will live."

Grace could not account for the effect of these words, or for the thrill of emotion which agitated her, for she had not read the secret of her own heart.

"How long has this been?" she asked, hurriedly.

"For a week only. Frederic seems to be suffering from a slow fever, and the physician tells me that the chief difficulty in the way of recovery is the mental depression which weighs him down.""Has he not been prospering? Is he in pecuniary trouble?"

"No; he has been unusually prosperous, and has on hand more orders than he could attend to if he were in health."

"Have you any knowledge of any other cause for his depression?"

"Yes, Miss Dearborn; I know it only too well. It is for this I came here to see you."

"Name it. If there is anything I can do——"

"Don't promise too hastily. You may be offended if I tell you my poor boy's secret."

"No, no," answered Grace; but her agitation showed that she began to suspect.

"Plainly then, my dear young lady, he is madly, hopelessly in love with you."

Grace half-rose from her seat, while her expressive face showed a variety of contending emotions.

"Do not be angry," implored Mrs. Vernon. "The poor boy cannot help it. He never would have dared speak to you, nor would he have allowed me to come to you had he known my intention."

"May you not be mistaken?" asked Grace, in a low voice.

"No; he has spoken to me more than once about his love, and in his delirium your name has been constantly upon his lips."Grace was deeply moved.

"I did not dream of this," she said; "it distresses me."

"I knew you would sympathize with us," said the poor mother.

"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."

"No; I wished to surprise you, my boy."

"It is a glad surprise," he murmured.