e rough wooden fence. Once inside she stood a moment,
awed by the immensity of the half-finished nave. As she stood there,
hands clasped, her face turned raptly up to where the massive granite
columns reared their height to frame the choir, she was, for the moment,
as devout as any Episcopalian whose money had helped make the great
building. Not only devout, but prayerful, ecstatic. That was partly due
to the effect of the pillars, the lights, the tapestries, the great,
unfinished chunks of stone that loomed out from the side walls, and the
purple shadow cast by the window above the chapels at the far end; and
partly to the actress in her that responded magically to any mood, and
always to surroundings. Later she walked softly down the deserted nave,
past the choir, to the cluster of chapels, set like gems at one end,
and running from north to south, in a semi-circle. A placard outside one
said, "St. Saviour's chapel. For those who wish to rest and pray." All
white marble, this little nook, gleaming softly in the gray half-light.
Fanny entered, and sat down. She was quite alone. The roar and crash
of the Eighth avenue L, the Amsterdam cars, the motors drumming up
Morningside hill, were softened here to a soothing hum.

For those who wish to rest and pray.

Fanny Brandeis had neither rested nor prayed since that hideous day when
she had hurled her prayer of defiance at Him. But something within her
now began a groping for words; for words that should follow an ancient
plea beginning, "O God of my Fathers----" But at that the picture of the
room came back to her mental vision--the room so quiet except for the
breathing of the woman on the bed; the woman with the tolerant, humorous
mouth, and the straight, clever nose, and the softly bright brown eyes,
all so strangely pinched and shrunken-looking now----

Fanny got to her feet, with a noisy scraping of the chair on the stone
floor. The vague, half-formed prayer died at birth. She found her way
out of the dim, quiet little chapel, up the long aisle and out the great
door. She shivered a little in the cold of the early January morning as
she hurried toward the Broadway subway.

At nine-thirty she was standing at a counter in the infants' wear
section at Best's, making mental notes while the unsuspecting saleswoman
showed her how the pink ribbon in this year's models was brought
under the beading, French fashion, instead of weaving through it,
as heretofore. At ten-thirty