At the farther end, above a high-standing altar, rose a mighty crucifix. It was so beautiful, so real, so truthful in its silent agony, that, looking through the dusk, it startled me. I grasped the yielding arm beside me. “What is that?” I questioned sharply. “You a Christian and so dull?” she exclaimed. “That is Christ, the carpenter, the king, the God, the Tool, the Fool, anything, everything. Whatever you will. Is it not like him?” The airy mockery in her tone jarred on me. “Go nearer,” she continued, “look at it closer. It is worth studying, and is of excellent workmanship. Everything in these places should be and is of the best.” I went nearer as she bade me. It was indeed of exquisite workmanship. “I had not thought to meet with that in Hell,” I said at length. “I do not think you could get it better done in Heaven,” she observed, and laughed and turned away. I too turned from it, with a horrible repugnance growing in me mixed with extreme pain. I saw this figure for the first time in an unexpected place, and something within me struggled for expression, yet found none. Beneath the Crucifix, which was exceeding highly placed, broad flights of steps led up to a crimson altar, and above the altar was a handsome doorway of gold, which reached just so high as the Saviour’s feet. I noticed with some curiosity and surprise that she was ascending the steps before us. I followed with cold yet burning interest, for in this place white heat is only quenched with ice, and ice melted with white heat alone. But when we reached the upper step the altar was invisible. It had vanished, and the door alone remained before us. It opened, as all things opened here, silent and swiftly. She had been watching, and espied my look of evident astonishment, which amused her. “The lights are thrown on in such a manner that when you are below you imagine you see an arrangement something like a table,” she said. “But that would be a very inconvenient, and at the same time undignified, way of approaching the doorway, and I should have thought your own common sense would tell you it was nothing but a sham—a myth rather, I might say.” We stood upon the threshold and looked down the dim, grand aisle. No painter ever yet imagined in his fondest, highest dream a scene of richer grandeur. In place of the straight-backed pews of churches, jewelled thrones ranged tier behind tier, meeting the eye with ever-gleaming, changing light. Over the font there hung by finest cords of diamond and ruby intermingled, a royal crown, its golden background hidden by gems. A great golden bird spread out its giant wings below us, every feather tipped with curious light, and on its back rested the mighty Bible opened at the Gospel according to St John. The twelve Apostles stood out in bold relief around the pulpit, and from the tasseled cushion on the desk a simple cross was hanging in needlework of gold.