appear to have full confidence that they shall reach heaven at last.
They are embracing each other, and one little one stretches out his
hand towards another who stands below him, and points to himself, as
if he were saying, "I am going to heaven." The older people stand as
if uncertain, yet hopeful, and they bow in humble adoration to the
Lord Jesus. On this picture the boy's eyes rested longer than on any
other: the Metal Pig stood still before it. A low sigh was heard.
Did it come from the picture or from the animal? The boy raised his
hands towards the smiling children, and then the Pig ran off with
him through the open vestibule.

"Thank you, thank you, you beautiful animal," said the little boy,
caressing the Metal Pig as it ran down the steps.

"Thanks to yourself also," replied the Metal Pig; "I have helped
you and you have helped me, for it is only when I have an innocent
child on my back that I receive the power to run. Yes; as you see, I
can even venture under the rays of the lamp, in front of the picture
of the Madonna, but I may not enter the church; still from without,
and while you are upon my back, I may look in through the open door.
Do not get down yet, for if you do, then I shall be lifeless, as you
have seen me in the Porta Rosa."

"I will stay with you, my dear creature," said the little boy.
So then they went on at a rapid pace through the streets of
Florence, till they came to the square before the church of Santa
Croce. The folding-doors flew open, and light streamed from the
altar through the church into the deserted square. A wonderful blaze
of light streamed from one of the monuments in the left-side aisle,
and a thousand moving stars seemed to form a glory round it; even
the coat-of-arms on the tomb-stone shone, and a red ladder on a blue
field gleamed like fire. It was the grave of Galileo. The monument
is unadorned, but the red ladder is an emblem of art, signifying
that the way to glory leads up a shining ladder, on which the prophets
of mind rise to heaven, like Elias of old. In the right aisle of the
church every statue on the richly carved sarcophagi seemed endowed
with life. Here stood Michael Angelo; there Dante, with the laurel
wreath round his brow; Alfieri and Machiavelli; for here side by
side rest the great men--the pride of Italy. The church itself is very
beautiful, even more beautiful than the marble cathedral at
Florence, though not so large. It seemed as if the carved ve