would all these characteristics have vanished, but for his art--but for
the abiding spirit, ever present to preserve their vital warmth against
the outer and earthly cold? The wisest of Valentine's friends, who
shook their heads disparagingly whenever his name was mentioned, were
at least wise enough in _their_ generation never to ask themselves such
embarrassing questions as these.


Thus much for the history of the painter's past life. We may now make
his acquaintance in the appropriate atmosphere of his own Studio.




CHAPTER II.

MR. BLYTH IN HIS STUDIO.

It was wintry weather--not such a November winter's day as some of us
may remember looking at fourteen years ago, in Baregrove Square, but a
brisk frosty morning in January. The country view visible from the back
windows of Mr. Blyth's house, which stood on the extreme limit of the
new suburb, was thinly and brightly dressed out for the sun's morning
levee, in its finest raiment of pure snow. The cold blue sky was
cloudless; every sound out of doors fell on the ear with a hearty and
jocund ring; all newly-lit fires burnt up brightly and willingly
without coaxing; and the robin-redbreasts hopped about expectantly on
balconies and windowsills, as if they only waited for an invitation to
walk in and warm themselves, along with their larger fellow creatures,
round the kindly hearth.