The year had been the hardest of his life, and now that he was approaching the time of crisis--the completion of his two pictures, the judgement of the Academy and the public, his nerve seemed to be giving way.

As he thought of all that success or failure might mean, he plunged into a melancholy no less extravagant than the passion of self-confidence from which he had emerged.

Suppose that he fell ill before the pictures were finished--what would become of Phoebe and the child?
As he thought of Phoebe, suddenly his heart melted within him.

Was she, too, hating the hours?
As he bowed his head on his arms a few hot, unwilling tears forced themselves into his eyes.

Had he been unkind and harsh to her ?--his poor little Phoebe! An imperious impulse seemed to sweep him back into her arms.