untry school and
wore his mittens sewed to a piece of tape that ran through his coat
sleeves."

"You're right," said Fanny; "he did. That man's from Winnebago,
Wisconsin."

"No!"

"Yes."

"Do you mean you know him? Honestly? What's he like?"

But Fanny had vanished. "I'm a tired business woman," she called, above
the splashing that followed, "and I won't converse until I'm fed."

"But how about Horn & Udell?" demanded Ella, her mouth against the
crack.

"Practically mine," boasted Fanny.

"You mean--landed!"

"Well, hooked, at any rate, and putting up a very poor struggle."

"Why, you clever little divil, you! You'll be making me look like a
stock girl next."

Fanny did not telephone Heyl until the day she left New York. She had
told herself she would not telephone him at all. He had sent her his New
York address and telephone number months before, after that Sunday
at the dunes. Ella Monahan had finished her work and had gone back to
Chicago four days before Fanny was ready to leave. In those four days
Fanny had scoured the city from the Palisades to Pell street. I don't
know how she found her way about. It was a sort of instinct with her.
She seemed to scent the picturesque. She never for a moment neglected
her work. But she had found it was often impossible to see these New
York business men until ten--sometimes eleven--o'clock. She awoke at
seven, a habit formed in her Winnebago days. Eight-thirty one morning
found her staring up at the dim vastness of the dome of the cathedral of
St. John the Divine. The great gray pile, mountainous, almost ominous,
looms up in the midst of the dingy commonplaceness of Amsterdam avenue
and 110th street. New Yorkers do not know this, or if they know it, the
fact does not interest them. New Yorkers do not go to stare up into the
murky shadows of this glorious edifice. They would if it were situate
in Rome. Bare, crude, unfinished, chaotic, it gives rich promise of
magnificent fulfillment. In an age when great structures are thrown up
to-day, to be torn down to-morrow, this slow-moving giant is at once a
reproach and an example. Twenty-five years in building, twenty-five
more for completion, it has elbowed its way, stone by stone, into such
company as St. Peter's at Rome, and the marvel at Milan. Fanny found her
way down the crude cinder paths that made an alley-like approach to
the cathedral. She entered at the side door that one found by following
arrows posted on th