and build thereon a set of studios for the benefit of such artists as cared for marine subjects. The studios had been built and tenanted for some years, and the place itself had acquired considerable favour among the "Brothers of the Brush." Jasper Trenoweth was a man of great culture and of artistic tastes. He had travelled much, read much, and, in an unobtrusive and almost unrecognised manner, done an immense amount of good to members of a profession which he held in high reverence and esteem. Indeed, he himself had worked and studied as an artist in his youth with no inconsiderable success. But of late years, and, strangely enough, since the first year that the studios had been completed and opened, Jasper Trenoweth had never touched brush or pencil. He gave no reason, but then he was a man too reserved and cold to give confidence easily. A few friends dear to him by association, or kindred tastes, were all he ever asked to the lonely old mansion on the hill-side, where for nearly two centuries the Trenoweths had been born, and dwelt, and died. He was the last of that race; a man living quite alone, with no ties of family, and very few friends. He made good and generous use of his wealth, but always in an unobtrusive manner that few suspected. To artists in their days of struggling and despair he had ever been a friend, but he conferred benefits so delicately that it would have been a difficult matter to trace them back to his hand. A cold man, a cynical man, a man scant of praise, intolerant of feebleness, so said the art world; but here and there some nature would recognise the deep tenderness and nobility of this unknown benefactor; would learn that no man held genius in greater reverence, or gave to it more ready help, even as his scathing words and bitter contempt held up to scorn all that was imitative and mediocre.
Five years had passed since the studios had been tenanted—four since that strange rule had been framed and published by their owner that they would never be let to a woman artist. He was very strict on this point. He would give no reason, and suffer no questioning, but the rule, once made, had been rigidly adhered to.
Various tenants had held the studios from time to time, some remaining but a few months, others for a year or more. One artist, however, a young Irishman, celebrated for his sea pieces, and a great favourite with Jasper Trenoweth, had held his studio ever since they had been opened. This young man knew more of the cynical and reserved owner than any of the "art brotherhood" to whom his tall figure, and grave stern face, and quiet merciless criticisms were familiar.
"He opened the door."
As far as it was in him to unbend to, or care for anyone, Jasper had unbent to Denis O'Hara: perhaps because the bright sunny nature and genial temperament were so unlike his own—perhaps because he recognised in the youth of five-and-twenty those possibilities which had once allured himself, and knew that he, too, loved art more than fame, in an age when
