"But I don't quite understand them myself," says I, blushing a little. "Trust genius to discover genius," says he. "You could not fail to see faults or merits where they existed. All the arts are kindred. Poetry, painting, sculpture, go hand-in-hand. You understood the beauty that lies in these doors at a glance." "One must be blind not to see that," says I. "Of course; well, cousin, we will give a day to these things before we go home; but now, hurry forward, or we shall be too late to see the House open." "Just as if there was a house in all Washington that wouldn't open for us if we chose to knock or ring," I thought to myself, but said nothing, for Dempster was walking off like a steam-engine, and I followed down one long hall, and up another--all paved with bright-colored stones--till it seemed as if I were walking over a rock carpet. XLVI. WAS IT A MEETING-HOUSE? Dear sisters:--At last we came to some wide marble stairs, with a twist in the middle, and they led us into another long hall with a stone carpet, out of which some doors covered with cloth were opening and shutting all the time for folks to go through. Cousin Dempster swung one open for me, and I went into what looked like a meeting-house gallery, with long seats a-running all around it, cushioned off with red velvet, or something. Right over what seemed to be the pulpit, was a square gallery by itself, which I took for the singers' seats, but it was full of men--not a female among them--and they all seemed busy as bees laying out their music for use. Cousin E. E. was sitting near this gallery. She beckoned to me, so I went in. I sat down by her and whispered: "I didn't know we were coming to a meeting. Dempster never said a word about it." "Hush!" says she. "The chaplain is going to pray." I did hush, and saw the congregation come in and walk down the aisles and take their seats. Some brought books that seemed like Bibles under their arms; and all of them took off their hats, as was proper. One thing struck me as peculiar: no ladies came into any place but the galleries, and up there they whispered and laughed in a way that made my blood run cold. By and by a man came in, walked down the broad aisle, and went up into the pulpit. Two or three men were sitting in the deacons' seat,--which ran along below the pulpit, and they began to whisper together--a thing I didn't like in the deacons of a church. The minister put his hands together beautifully. The congregation stood up, as good Presbyterians ought to do, and I stood up too, with my arms folded, and bending my head a little, while a solemn prayerfulness crept over me; but the next minute I dropped both arms and opened both eyes wide. The minister was coming down the pulpit stairs. The congregation sat down. The deacons each took up a pen--so did the singers, who hadn't sung a note yet. "What _does_ this mean?" I whispered to Cousin E. E. "The prayer is over," says she.