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