A spare half-hour before closing time we gave to the Stock Exchange, and it was quite enough, for some one was short on something, and pandemonium reigned. As we stood on the corner of Rector Street and Broadway, hesitating whether to take surface or elevated cars, faint strains of organ music from Trinity attracted us. "Service or choir practice; let us go in a few moments," said Evan, to whom the organ is a voice that never fails to draw. We took seats far back, and lost ourselves among the shadows. A special service was in progress, the music half Gregorian, and the congregation was too scattered to mar the feeling that we had slipped suddenly out of the material world. The shadows of the sparrows outside flitted upward on the stained glass windows, until it seemed as if the great chords had broken free and taking form were trying to escape. Now and then the door would open softly and unaccustomed figures slip in and linger in the open space behind the pews. Aliens, newly landed and wandering about in the vicinity of their water-front lodging-houses, music and a church appealed to their loneliness. Some stood, heads bowed, and some knelt in prayer and crossed themselves on leaving; one woman, lugging a great bundle tied in a blue cloth, a baby on her arm and another clinging to her skirts, put down her load, bedded the baby upon it, and began to tell her beads. The service ended, and the people scattered, but the organist played on, and the boy choir regathered, but less formally. "What is it?" we asked of the verger, who was preparing to close the doors. "There will be a funeral of one of the oldest members of the congregation to-morrow, and they are about to go through the music of the office." Suddenly a rich bass voice, strong in conviction, trumpeted forth--"I am the resurrection and the life!" And only a stone's throw away jingled the money market of the western world. The temple and the table of the money changers keep step as of old. Ah, wonderful New York! * * * * * The afternoon was clear staccato and mild withal, and the sun, almost at setting, lingered above orange and dim cloud banks at the end of the vista Broadway made. "Are you tired? Can you walk half a dozen blocks?" asked Evan of Miss Lavinia, as we came out. "No, quite the reverse; I think that I am electrified," she replied briskly. "Then we will go to Battery Park," he said, turning south. "Battery Park, where all the immigrants and roughs congregate! What an idea! We shall catch smallpox or have our pockets picked!" "Have you ever _been_ there?" persisted Evan. "Yes, once, I think, when steamship passengers lathed at the barge office, and of course I've seen it often in going to Staten Island to visit Cousin Lucretia."