on, "if you are at all aware of the bitter sarcasm implied in your
last observation. It is very just. Only the exceeding ingenuity of the
system stamps it as the contrivance of man, or some worse author; not an
emanation of the broad and simple wisdom from on high."

"It may be so," said Hilda; "but I meant no sarcasm."

Thus conversing, the two friends went together down the grand extent
of the nave. Before leaving the church, they turned to admire again its
mighty breadth, the remoteness of the glory behind the altar, and the
effect of visionary splendor and magnificence imparted by the long bars
of smoky sunshine, which travelled so far before arriving at a place of
rest.

"Thank Heaven for having brought me hither!" said Hilda fervently.

Kenyon's mind was deeply disturbed by his idea of her Catholic
propensities; and now what he deemed her disproportionate and misapplied
veneration for the sublime edifice stung him into irreverence.

"The best thing I know of St. Peter's," observed he, "is its equable
temperature. We are now enjoying the coolness of last winter, which, a
few months hence, will be the warmth of the present summer. It has no
cure, I suspect, in all its length and breadth, for a sick soul, but
it would make an admirable atmospheric hospital for sick bodies. What
a delightful shelter would it be for the invalids who throng to Rome,
where the sirocco steals away their strength, and the tramontana stabs
them through and through, like cold steel with a poisoned point! But
within these walls, the thermometer never varies. Winter and summer are
married at the high altar, and dwell together in perfect harmony."

"Yes," said Hilda; "and I have always felt this soft, unchanging climate
of St. Peter's to be another manifestation of its sanctity."

"That is not precisely my idea," replied Kenyon. "But what a delicious
life it would be, if a colony of people with delicate lungs or merely
with delicate fancies--could take up their abode in this ever-mild and
tranquil air. These architectural tombs of the popes might serve for
dwellings, and each brazen sepulchral doorway would become a domestic
threshold. Then the lover, if he dared, might say to his mistress,
'Will you share my tomb with me?' and, winning her soft consent, he
would lead her to the altar, and thence to yonder sepulchre of Pope
Gregory, which should be their nuptial home. What a life would be
theirs, Hilda, in their marble Eden!"

"It is no