is said that when a 'bus-driver has a holiday he always goes and rides
with the man who is taking his place; but when Rembrandt had a holiday he
went away from the studio, not towards it. He would walk alone, off
across the meadows, and along the canals, and once we find him tramping
thirty miles to visit cousins who were fishermen on the seacoast. Happy
fisher-folk!

But Rembrandt took few play-spells; he broke off entirely from his tavern
companions and lived the life of an ascetic and recluse, seeing no
society except the society that came to his studio. His heart was in his
art, and he was intent on working while it was called the day.

About this time there came to him Cornelis Sylvius, the eminent preacher,
to sit for a picture that was to adorn the Seaman's Orphanage, of which
Sylvius was director.

It took a good many sittings to bring out a Rembrandt portrait. On one of
his visits the clergyman was accompanied by a young woman--his ward--by
name, Saskia van Ulenburgh.

The girl was bright, animated and intelligent, and as she sat in the
corner the painter sort of divided his attention between her and the
clergyman. Then the girl got up, walked about a bit, looking at the
studio properties, and finally stood behind the young painter, watching
him work. This was one of the things Rembrandt could never, never endure.
It paralyzed his hand, and threw all his ideas into a jumble. It was the
law of his studio that no one should watch him paint--he had secrets of
technique that had cost him great labor.

"You do not mind my watching you work?" asked the ingenuous girl.