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.
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