"He is a man
Full of strange thoughts, and fancies whimsical,
Who dreams of dreams that make his life a dream.
And had he powers supernal at command,
Would tumble heaven itself about our ears
In his mad searchings for--I wot not what."

The room which Beaumont had turned into a studio while painting Squire Garsworth's portrait, overlooked the terrace on to which the French windows opened. It was the drawing-room of the Grange, and was magnificently furnished in the ponderous style of the Georgian period, though now, being but rarely used, an air of desertion and decay seemed to linger about it. The windows, however, being large and curtainless, there was an excellent light to paint by, so Basil established his easel near the centre window, and placed the squire at one further along, in order that the full light should fall on his withered face, showing the multitudinous wrinkles and stern expression that made it a study worthy of Rembrandt. Beaumont often glanced at the attenuated form lying listlessly back in the great arm-chair, and wondered what curious event had changed this man from an idle reveller into an industrious scholar.

Above was the painted ceiling of the apartment, whereon gods and goddesses, in faded tints, disported themselves among dingy blue clouds, surrounded by cupids, sea-horses, rising suns and waning moons, while, below, a threadbare carpet covered the polished floor but imperfectly. A huge marble fireplace, cold and black-looking, heavy, cumbersome chairs, solid-looking tables, a quaint old spinet with thin legs and several comfortable-looking sofas, filled up the room. There were also grim-looking faces frowning from the walls, cabinets filled with grotesque china, now worth its weight in gold, bizarre ornaments from India and China, and many other quaint things, which made the apartment look like a curiosity-shop to the refined taste of the artist. But in spite of the old-time magnificence of the place, spiders spun their webs in the corners, grey dust lay thickly around, and a chill, tomb-like feeling pervaded the room. Even the cheerful sunlight could not lift the heavy shadow which seemed to brood over it, and it seemed, in its loneliness, to be a chamber of some enchanted palace, such as we read of in eastern tales.

Nor was the proprietor out of place in this decayed realm of former grandeur, for he looked old and weird enough to have been coeval with the pristine splendours of the Grange. The worn face, the sudden gleams of insane fire from the deeply-set eyes, the snowy, sparse hair that fell from under the black skull-cap, and the sombre robe, all seemed to be the semblance of some hoary necromancer rich in malignant spells of magic.

Had Randal Garsworth mixed with the world he would have been a different creature. Had he gone abroad among his fellow men and taken an interest in their ideas concerning politics, literature, and music, he would have retained a healthy mind by such generalization of his intellect. But, shutting himself up, as he had done, in a lonely house, and concentrating his mind upon himself, he lapsed into a morbid state which prepared him for the reception of any fantastical idea. While thus lingering in this unhealthy life, he chanced upon the curious doctrine of metempsychosis, and it speedily took possession of his diseased mind, already strongly inclined towards strange searchings. The weirdness of the Pythagorean theory appealed to his love of the whimsical, and he became a monomaniac on the subject. Under the influence of a lonely life, ardent studies of the philosophers who supported the theory of transmigration, and his selfish application of these wild doctrines to his own soul, the monomania under which he laboured deepened into madness.

To all appearances he conducted himself in a rational manner, though slightly eccentric, but with his firm belief in metempsychosis, and his preparations for his future incarnation he could hardly be called sane. Yet he conducted all business matters with admirable skill, and in spite of the dilapidated state of the Grange, his farms were well managed, and his tenants found no cause to complain of neglect on the part of their landlord. Like all madmen, he was a profound egotist, and absorbed in his belief of a re-incarnation on this earth, he paid no heed to the claims of relatives or friends, neglecting all social duties in order to devote himself entirely to his favourite delusions. Such was the man who sat before Basil Beaumont, by whose skilful brush and genuine talent the strange face of the recluse was rapidly being transferred to the canvas in the most life-like manner.

"I hope this portrait will please you," said Beaumont, breaking the silence which had lasted some minutes, "it's the best thing I have ever done."

"Is it?" replied Garsworth, vaguely, his mind being far away, occupied with some abstruse thought. "Yes, of course. What did you say?"

"I hope you'll like the picture," repeated Beaumont, slowly.

"Of course I will," said the squire, quickly. "I want to see myself in the future as I am now. Some people look back on their portraits taken in youth, and see a faint semblance of their old age in the unwrinkled faces, but I will see this picture when in a new body which will have no resemblance in its form to the withered shape I now bear."

"A strange doctrine."

"As you say--a strange doctrine," said Garsworth, warming with his subject, "but a very true one. My body is old and worn out. Physically, I am an irreparable wreck, but my soul is as lusty, fresh and eager as it was in the days of my youth. Why, then, should not my true entity shed this worn-out, fleshly envelope as a snake does its skin, and enter into a new one replete with the vigour of youth?"

"A difficult question to answer," replied Beaumont, calmly, "very, very difficult. We have no proof ............