The Palais de Justice, Paris, showing the Sainte-Chapelle at the left of the picture. The bridge is the famous Pont au Change, rebuilt in 1859 on the site of one of the oldest bridges in Paris. The clock-tower at the corner of the building dates from 1298, the clock being probably the oldest public clock in France.

priceless examples of French glass at the zenith of its perfection. They were all in place when the building was consecrated in 1248, except the rose-window, which dates from the fifteenth century, and is not so fine as the others. They are "medallion" windows, each depicting a series of sacred events in a corresponding number of variously shaped medallions, upon a conventional ground-work. Their subjects cover the whole of Sacred Writ, beginning with the Book of Genesis and continuing through Exodus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Judges, the lives of the Kings and of the Prophets. From that point the New Testament is given with equal detail; the lives of Christ, of the Virgin Mary and of Saint John the Evangelist,—as well as the Heavenly Jerusalem, to which the rose-window is devoted. Sixty-seven of the subjects have to do with the acquisition of the relics; with their journey, their reception and their display before the people. These are perhaps most precious, as they give us portraits by contemporary artists of the Comte d'Artois, Blanche of Castille, and St. Louis himself.

This host of animated scenes is full of interest-a whole world of little figures in action, living, moving, and almost talking to us across the lapse of time. It forms a tremendous conception of religious story; and it has been well said that after taking us back to the origin of things and the creation of the world, these wonderful medallions conduct us down the ages, and, closing with the Book of Revelations, usher us even into the bosom of eternity!

We may go out from the chapel of St. Louis into other historic portions of the Palace of Justice and follow the French nation from century to century. We may look down the sombre passages leading to the Cour de Mai, through which passed more than twenty-seven hundred victims of the Revolution; and in the Conciergerie, which occupies the lower part of the building, adjoining the river, we may visit the cell in which Marie Antoinette was imprisoned. On the upper floor is the chamber where the Revolutionary tribunal met and passed her death sentence; and near her cell below is that of Robespierre. Outside is the bridge occupying the site of the

old Pont au Change which was flanked with the shops of goldsmiths and money-changers; it leads across the Seine to that modern portion of the city, on the right bank of the river, which harbors the present business and fashion of Paris,the finest boulevards, hotels, theaters, and shops. But the old town on the left bank which cherishes Notre Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle is still full of ancient traditions. Here is the Sorbonne, in the Latin quarter, and here also is the Quartier St. Germain containing the residences of the old aristocracy.

Yet, after dwelling upon the historic memories in other parts of the Palace of Justice, we find ourselves drawn back again to the beauties of the Sainte-Chapelle, and we suddenly realize that here the years have left us more than memories. Art in its most wonderful creative mood has triumphed over time; and did we know nothing of St. Louis or his period, the infinite loveliness of this little chapel would give us almost an equal delight. Through the artists, whom he inspired to such achievement, Louis unconsciously mirrored his own "splendor of soul"; symbolizing the force and beauty of his Christian faith, as well as the richness of his spiritual nature.

The glorious reds and blues of the ancient glass fill the silent room with colored light, and their glow seems to repeople it with the brilliant scenes of medieval monarchy. The ladies who knelt beneath these jeweled windows, and who were radiant as the flowers in a French parterre, the knights shining in bright armor, gay with embroidered devices, the pages, squires and crusaders, who formed a rainbow-hued concourse at joust or worship, ceased long ago their devotions in the Sainte-Chapelle! Yet it still invites us with incomparable charm to do homage at the shrine of immortal art.

By Maarten Maartens.

[The following story reprinted by permission of the author and his publishers, Appleton & Co., is one of the best of a volume of short stories entitled "My Poor Relations." These tales of Dutch peasant life display much of the excellent method of the French masters of the short story, and have, as well, a kindliness and sympathy too often lacking in the work of the French writers. Mr. Maartens (J. M. W. Van der Poorten-Schwartz) is the greatest of living Dutch authors, but by reason of his ability to write in English has a wider circle of readers in England and America, than in Holland itself.]

IT

T IS an old story, forgotten long ago, I think, in that quiet corner of the world which saw it happen. A touching story it has always seemed to me, and strangely quaint; but that, perhaps, may only be because to me its memory remains indissolubly blended with recollections of the place in which I used to hear it told me, because the soft voice of the teller must ever be to me the music of the tale. For me alone is this: why should I seek, then, to intrude it upon others? To them it will be a passing incident, printed, paid for (a tenth part of a sixpence), sliced between two others, yawned over for five minutes and forgot. Now to me it is the changeless Nowel, the young anthem of the angels around the cradle of the Saviour of the world. And again I hear my mother speaking, in the wainscot chamber with the painted panels, in the half light of the fire-logs, and her face, hear her telling, with a voice like distant church bells, all the story, how it happened, with but little alteration, many winter evenings, almost word for word. The voice is stilled. The winter evenings were long and cold and dark. They are longer now.

For

I said the story is an old one. That must be true. one thing, there are no Counts Edelstam in Holland now; the family has died out, and the simple customs among which they lived are also dead or dying. All this I know. Yet to me

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