remaining quiet may often pass for men of wisdom: this is because no man
can really talk as wisely as he can look.

Young Rembrandt was handicapped by a full-moon face, and small gray eyes
that gave no glint, and his hair was so tousled and unruly that he could
not wear a hat.

So the sons of aristocrats who cracked sly jokes at the miller's boy had
their fun.

Rembrandt usually came in late, after the master had begun his little
morning lecture. The lad was barefoot, having left his wooden shoon in
the hallway "so as not to wear out the floor." He would bow awkwardly to
the professor, fall over a chair or two that had been slyly pushed in his
way, and taking his seat chew the butt end of a brush.

"Why are you always late?" asked the master one day.

"Oh, I was working at home and forgot the time."

"And what are you working at?"

"Me? I'm--I'm drawing a little," and he colored vermilion to the back of
his neck.

"Well, bring your work here so we can profit by it," exclaimed a joker,
and the class guffawed.

The next morning the lad brought his picture--a woman's face--a picture
of a face, homely, wrinkled, weather-beaten, but with a look of love and