nd was not easily annoyed. One
day a rich citizen came in, and asked him the price of a certain picture.

"Two hundred florins," said Rembrandt.

"Agreed," said his visitor. "I will pay you to-morrow, when I send for the
picture."

About an hour afterward a letter was handed to the painter. Its contents
were as follows:

"MASTER REMBRANDT--During your absence a few days since, I saw in your
studio a picture representing an old woman churning butter. I was
enchanted with it; and if you will let me purchase it for 300 florins, I
pray you to bring it to my house, and be my guest for the day."

The letter was signed with some fictitious name, and bore the address of a
village several leagues distant from Amsterdam.

Tempted by the additional 100 florins, and caring little for breaking his
engagement, Rembrandt set out early next morning with his picture. He
walked for four hours without finding his obliging correspondent, and at
length, worn out with fatigue, he returned home. He found the citizen in
his studio, waiting for the picture. As Rembrandt, however, did not
despair of finding the man of the 300 florins, and as a falsehood troubled
but little his blunted conscience, he said, "Alas! an accident has
happened to the picture; the canvas was injured, and I felt so vexed that
I threw it into the fire. Two hundred florins gone! However, it will be my
loss, not yours, for I will paint another precisely similar, and it shall
be ready for you by this time to-morrow."

"I am sorry," replied the amateur, "but it was the picture you have burned
which I wished to have; and as that is gone, I shall not trouble you to
paint another."

So he departed, and Rembrandt shortly afterward received a second letter
to the following effect: "MASTER REMBRANDT--You have broken your
engagement, told a falsehood, wearied yourself to death, and lost the sale
of your picture--all by listening to the dictates of avarice. Let this
lesson be a warning to you in future."

"So," said the painter, looking round at his pupils, "one of you must have
played me this pretty trick. Well, well, I forgive it. You young varlets
do not know the value of a florin as I know it."

Sometimes the students nailed small copper coins on the floor, for the
mischievous pleasure of seeing their master, who suffered much from
rheumatism in the back, stoop with pain and difficulty, and try in vain to
pick them up.

Rembrandt married an ignorant peasant who had s