assically featured, with
hair picturesquely scattered with streaks of silver.

"Done up, eh?" I said to him.

"Done up is the word," he answered.

"You've been doing too much," I said, looking into his grey eyes as I
held his hand a moment. "You must cease work for a time. Get away from
your easel, go abroad, and forget to take your brushes with you. Go
anywhere, a hundred miles from a retail colourman's."

[Illustration: "'YOU'VE BEEN DOING TOO MUCH,' I SAID."]

"My dear doctor," he answered, "your prescription is too strong. You
forget I am an artist. It is like taking a man with a dying thirst to a
fountain of water and telling him he mustn't drink. I can't leave my
work."

"When I tell you that it is either a case of your leaving your work or
your work leaving you, my remark may not be very original, but it is
undeniably true. Do you sleep well?"

"I can't say," was his reply. "When I fall asleep at night I never wake
until my hour for rising. But I am more tired in the morning than when I
turned in over-night."

"Quite so. Do you dream at all?"

"Yes, I dream."

"Feel sleepy now--eh?"

"Doctor, I could go to bed for a week," he replied.

"Again, I tell you--overwork," I said, with strong deliberation. "Now
I'll make you a proposal, which I can couple most heartily with the name
of Mrs. Gratton. Come away with us. We are going to Herne Bay for a few
weeks. I have taken a house there. Most invigorating place. You want no
medicine, you won't leave your work alone, I won't be hard in my
treatment of your case. Bring your tools with you. I will prescribe so
much colour for you during the day--your paints and brushes may become
converted into agreeable physic, but--they must be taken at periodical
times. What do you say?"

Colensoe consented--gratefully accepted my offer, stayed to lunch, and
my wife took care to let him feel that the invitation was one of
combined cordiality from both of us. I was a great admirer of Colensoe's
work, and therefore took a deep interest in the worker. In a week's time
we were at Herne Bay. A room--with a good light--was apportioned off as
a small studio for Colensoe. A week passed by. Colensoe obeyed my
instructions to the letter. I limited his working hours, and he began
himself to be thankful when the periodical times for laying aside his
brush came round. I noticed this, and lessened the hours of painting
more, thinking that by degrees he would soon put his palette away