which is his studio life. Mr. May's artistic treasures are none of them the old masters of a millionaire, but purely personal household gods, each with a little story of a friendship, a reminiscence of hard-up times, or some personal taste. The volumes in the old oak book-case are not first editions, but they show a fine appreciation for the best literature, and even the blue china is not wired and hung-up. The drawing-board seems to act as an address-book, and the grandfather's clock by the fireplace in its old age has given up making a nuisance of itself by repeating "For ever, never." The mantelpiece is peopled with little Japanese dolls, little bronzes and brasses, and figures carved in yellow ivory. These, with a few plaster casts of arms and legs which hang on the walls, a line of Japanese prints put around the ceiling "to try an effect," a few Japanese lanterns hanging from the roof, some Japanese lay-figures in armour standing round the walls, and a few sketches, are about all the decoration of this long sky-lit room. But most important of all is the index to as remarkable a story as was ever told by a successful man, a story which has never been told before. It is only an old mug. The substance is earthenware, the decoration obviously pseudo-oriental, and the design and glaze nothing marvellous. It clearly comes from the English potteries, but it has no mark, and it is certainly not Chelsea, Derby, Yarmouth, Bristol, Lowestoft, or any of the rarer and higher-priced wares. The hand of Wedgwood, Voyez, or Elers is not seen in its design, and, indeed, it is difficult precisely to locate its origin. And yet, it should now take its place in Chaffers and Church who know it not. Our dilemma is solved by Mr. May himself, who seems, in his usual casual modest way, to have attached no importance to it, and who, from subsequent inquiries, has only a very superficial knowledge which would not satisfy a ceramic maniac, to say nothing of a family historian. "That mug was made," says Mr. May, "by my grandfather. I don't know much more about him than he knows about me; but if you are interested in china, you may care for some details which may help you to hunt it up. He was a potter in the Midlands--if you want to be particular, at Snead, in Staffordshire--and, I believe, was fairly well off; for the design, which is that of a hunt, was made to commemorate his becoming the master of the local hounds. If you say that his name is not given in any of the handbooks, I am sure you are right; but all I know is, the firm, whatever it was called, came to grief owing to the war--and I can't tell you what war; but it was not the China war." Here the student of heredity will discern the rude germ of the artistic temperament which has so developed in the third generation. It was in the interests of the hereditary artistic strain that Mr. May was induced to tell the story. He is not so impressed as are many people with the