“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 creature away.  It distresses me to see that poor man, or any human being, directing his prayers so much amiss.”

“Then, Hilda,” answered the sculptor more seriously, “the only Place in the Pantheon for you and me to kneel is on the pavement beneath the central aperture.  If we pray at a saint’s shrine, we shall give utterance to earthly wishes; but if we pray face to face with the Deity, we shall feel it impious to petition for aught that is narrow and selfish.  Methinks it is this that makes the Catholics so delight in the worship of saints; they can bring up all their little worldly wants and whims, their individualities and human weaknesses, not as things to be repented of, but to be humored by the canonized humanity to which they pray.  Indeed, it is very tempting!”