The features may be disguised a little, but it is the same fine, bright,
charming, petite young woman.

Before six months had passed he painted several more portraits of Saskia;
and in one of these she has a sprig of rosemary--the emblem of
betrothal--held against her heart.

And then we find an entry at the Register's to the effect that they were
married on June Twenty-fourth, Sixteen Hundred Thirty-four.

Rembrandt's was a masterly nature: strong, original and unyielding. But
the young woman had no wish that was not his, and her one desire was to
make her lover happy. She was not a great woman, but she was good, which
is better, and she filled her husband's heart to the brim. Those first
few years of their married life read like a fairy-tale.

He bought her jewels, laces, elegant costumes, and began to fill their
charming home with many rare objects of art. All was for Saskia--his
life, his fortune, his work, his all.

As the years go by we shall see that it would have been better had he
saved his money and builded against the coming of the storm; but even
though Saskia protested mildly against his extravagance, the master
would have his way.

His was a tireless nature: he found his rest in change. He usually had
some large compositions on hand and turned to this for pastime when
portraits failed. Then Saskia was ever present, and if there was a
holiday he painted her as the "Jewish Bride," "The Gypsy Queen," or in
some other fantastic garb.

We have seen that in those early years at Leyden he painted himself, but
now it was only Saskia--she was his other self. All those numerous
pictures of himself were drawn before he knew Saskia--or after she had
gone.

Their paradise continued nine years--and then Saskia died.

Rembrandt was not yet forty when desolation settled down upon him.

* * * * *

Saskia was the mother of five children; four of them had died, and the
babe she left, Titus by name, was only eight months old when she passed
away.

For six months we find that Rembrandt did very little. He was stunned,
and his brain and hand refused to co-operate.

The first commission he undertook was the portrait of the wife of one of
the rich merchants of the city. When the work was done, the picture
resembled the dead Saskia so much more than it did the sitter that the
patron refused to accept it. The artist saw only Saskia and continued to
portray her.

But work gave him re