-an old lady of distinctly nervous
temperament--who wept bitterly. Previous to the sad occurrence she had
heard the firing of a pistol some five or six times during a period of
two days. On the first occasion she had hurried to the studio, and the
alarmed state of her feelings was sufficient to cause her to overlook
the formality of giving the customary tap at the door previous to
entering. She entered the room, only to find the deceased artist holding
a pistol--the one produced--and looking at its barrel, still smoking,
earnestly. He burst into a hearty laugh when he saw her, and told her
not to be frightened.

"It is nothing, Mrs. Thompson," he said, "and should you hear the firing
again, do not be alarmed. Don't be frightened."

[Illustration: "DON'T BE FRIGHTENED."]

So the firing was frequent, and though it played pitifully with the old
housekeeper's nerves and shook her seventy-year-old bones considerably,
she quietly submitted to it and "hoped it was all right."

I knew Godfrey Huntingdon well. He often chatted over his pictures with
me. As a medical man and a student somewhat beyond the range of physic
and prescriptions, the pros and cons of an idea to be eventually carried
to the canvas gave rise to many interesting and discussable points. I
liked the man--he was so frank and true and positively simple in his
unassuming manner. Poor fellow! He never dreamt for a moment that he was
a genius, but what he did not know the public were quick to recognise.
Every picture from his brush was watched and waited for--a canvas from
him meant a vivid, striking, often sensational episode, which seemed to
live. I have some of his work in my dining-room now. I often look at his
figures. They are more human than anything I have seen by any other
modern painter. They seem possessed of breath and beating hearts of
their own, with tongues that want to speak, and eyes that reveal a
thinking brain. The trees in his landscapes appear to be gently shaken
by the breeze from across the moorland, the clouds only need touching by
the breath of the firmament to lazily move across the face of the blue
sky. He was indeed a genius.

It was always an open question in the minds of the public and the
judgment of the critics as to who excelled the other--Godfrey Huntingdon
or Wilfred Colensoe. They both belonged to the same school of ideas.
Their works were equally impressive, their figure and portrait painting
particularly so, and the judge