e than before. Pierre never painted
so good a picture again as the one that took the prize--that was his
masterpiece.

The Young Baron Holbein has an immense picture gallery, and is a
munificent patron of the arts. There is one composition on his
walls he prizes above all the rest. The wealth of India could not
purchase it. It is the same that took the prize when he was but a
babe and lay in his mother's arms. The mother who held him so
tenderly, and the father who gazed so lovingly upon her pure young
brow have passed away, but they live before him daily, and he feels
their gentle presence ever about him for good.

THE MARRIED SISTERS.

"COME, William, a single day, out of three hundred and sixty-five,
is not much."

"True, Henry Thorne. Nor is the single drop of water, that first
finds its way through the dyke, much; and yet, the first drop but
makes room for a small stream to follow, and then comes a flood. No,
no, Henry, I cannot go with you, to-day; and if you will be governed
by a friend's advice, you will not neglect your work for the fancied
pleasures of a sporting party."

"All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy, We were not made to be
delving forever with tools in close rooms. The fresh air is good for
us. Come, William, you will feel better for a little recreation. You
look pale from confinement. Come; I cannot go without you."

"Henry Thorne," said his friend, William Moreland, with an air more
serious than that at first assumed, "let me in turn urge you to
stay."

"It is in vain, William," his friend said, interrupting him.

"I trust not, Henry. Surely, my early friend and companion is not
deaf to reason."

"No, not to right reason."

"Well, listen to me. As I said at first, it is not the loss of a
simple day, though even this is a serious waste of time, that I now
take into consideration. It is the danger of forming a habit of
idleness. It is a mistake, that a day of idle pleasure recreates the
mind and body, and makes us return and necessary employments with
renewed delight. My own experience is, that a day thus spent, causes
us to resume our labors with reluctance, and makes irksome what
before was pleasant. Is it not your own?"

"Well, I don't know; I can't altogether say that it is; indeed, I
never thought about it."

"Henry, the worst of all kinds of deception is self-deception.
Don't, let me, beg of you, attempt to deceive yourself in a matter
so important. I am sure yo