some ages have trampled here; the gray
dome above, with its opening to the sky, as if heaven were looking down
into the interior of this place of worship, left unimpeded for prayers
to ascend the more freely; all these things make an impression of
solemnity, which St. Peter's itself fails to produce.

"I think," said the sculptor, "it is to the aperture in the dome--that
great Eye, gazing heavenward that the Pantheon owes the peculiarity of
its effect. It is so heathenish, as it were,--so unlike all the snugness
of our modern civilization! Look, too, at the pavement, directly beneath
the open space! So much rain has fallen there, in the last two thousand
years, that it is green with small, fine moss, such as grows over
tombstones in a damp English churchyard."

"I like better," replied Hilda, "to look at the bright, blue sky,
roofing the edifice where the builders left it open. It is very
delightful, in a breezy day, to see the masses of white cloud float over
the opening, and then the sunshine fall through it again, fitfully, as
it does now. Would it be any wonder if we were to see angels hovering
there, partly in and partly out, with genial, heavenly faces, not
intercepting the light, but only transmuting it into beautiful colors?
Look at that broad, golden beam--a sloping cataract of sunlight--which
comes down from the aperture and rests upon the shrine, at the right
hand of the entrance!"

"There is a dusky picture over that altar," observed the sculptor. "Let
us go and see if this strong illumination brings out any merit in it."

Approaching the shrine, they found the picture little worth looking at,
but could not forbear smiling, to see that a very plump and comfortable
tabby-cat--whom we ourselves have often observed haunting the
Pantheon--had established herself on the altar, in the genial sunbeam,
and was fast asleep among the holy tapers. Their footsteps disturbing
her, she awoke, raised herself, and sat blinking in the sun, yet with a
certain dignity and self-possession, as if conscious of representing a
saint.

"I presume," remarked Kenyon, "that this is the first of the feline race
that has ever set herself up as an object of worship, in the Pantheon or
elsewhere, since the days of ancient Egypt. See; there is a peasant from
the neighboring market, actually kneeling to her! She seems a gracious
and benignant saint enough."

"Do not make me laugh," said Hilda reproachfully, "but help me to drive
the c