over Rembrandt. He had become more morose and
bitter than ever. Success had only seemed to harden his heart, until
nothing but the chinking of gold had any effect upon it. He was
immensely wealthy, but a miser. As the years passed the gloom settled
deeper upon his soul, until finally he shut himself up in his dark
studio, and would see no one but Jews and money-brokers. At times he
would not let a picture go unless it had been covered with gold, as the
price of it. With all this wealth, the house of the famous painter bore
a poverty-stricken look, which was copied in the person of Rembrandt
himself.

Just before the end, when he felt himself seized by his death-sickness,
Paul one day called his sister to his bedside, and, commanding her to
raise a trapdoor in the floor of his bedroom, showed her his hoard of
gold. He then begged, as his last request, that he should be buried
privately, and that neither his son, nor indeed any one, should know
that he died rich. Louise was to have everything, and the graceless son
nothing.

[Sidenote: Louise's Refusal]

Great was his anger when his sister declared she should not keep the
gold, but would take care that it passed into the hands of those who
would know how to use it properly. Louise was firm, and Rembrandt was
powerless to do more than toss about in his distress. But gradually,
under the gentle admonitions of his sister, the artist's vision seemed
to expand, and before his death he was enabled to see where and how he
had made shipwreck of his happiness. Thanks to the ministrations of his
sister, his end was a peaceful one, and he died blessing her for all her
devotion to him.

Louise's own useful and devoted life was now near its close.

After winding up the affairs of her brother, she undertook to pay a
visit to her sister, who had fallen ill. It was too much for the good
old soul; she died on the journey.

[Sidenote: Hepsie's misdeed led, when she understood it, to a bold act
which had very gratifying results.]

Hepsie's Christmas Visit

BY

MAUD MADDICK

"I say, little mother," said Hepsie, as she tucked her hand under Mrs.
Erldon's arm, and hurried her along the snowy path from the old church
door, "I say--I've been thinking what a jolly and dear old world this
is, and if only the people in it were a little bit nicer, why, there
wouldn't be a thing to grumble at, would there?"

Mrs. Erldon turned her rather sad, but sweet face towards her little