I stopped in front of St. Paul's Church, gaping up at a twenty-six story
building opposite; a monstrous shaft with a gouge out of its south side as
if lightning had rived off a sliver. I went over to it and saw that I had
come to Ann Street, where Barnum's museum used to stand. The Post Office,
the City Hall, the restaurant where I ate breakfast, studying upon the
wall the bible texts and signs bidding me watch my hat and overcoat; the
_Tribune_ building, just as it looks on the almanac cover--all these
made an instant, deep impression. Not in the least like a dream.

By the statue of Horace Greeley I stood a moment irresolute. I knew that,
before I could reach her, Helen would have left her rooms for Barnard
College; breakfast had been a mistake. Then I noticed that Nassau Street
was just opposite; and, in spite of my impatience to be at her door, I
constrained myself to look up Judge Baker.

Between its Babel towers narrow Nassau Street was like a canyon. The
pavements were wet, for folks had just finished washing windows, though it
was eight o'clock in the forenoon. Bicycles zipped past and from somewhere
north a freshet of people flooded the sidewalk and roadway.

Down a steep little hill and up another--both thronged past belief--and in
a great marble maze of lawyers' offices I found the sign of Baker &
Magoun.

The boy who alone represented the firm said that I might have to wait some
minutes, and turned me loose to browse in the big, high-ceiled outer room
or library of the place where I am to work. After the dim corridors it was
a blaze of light. On all sides were massive bookshelves; the doorways gave
glimpses of other rooms, fine with rugs and pictures and heavy desks,
different enough from the plain fittings of the country lawyers' workshops