I wondered how that could be. But we were soon on our way. At length we turned into narrow, dirty streets, growing worse and worse. I shuddered at such sights and sounds of human beings, never before dreaming that in grand New York there could be so much wretchedness. I drew closer and closer to aunt, fearing one of the human demons that leered at us would seize me and carry me off. Such people! such places to live in! Such language! Why, it almost makes my hair stand on end to think of it. Aunt did not seem to mind them. May be they knew her, for every one stood aside for us to pass. "Here it is," she said at length. "Here is the other Greenwood." "This?" I answered, looking around for gravestones and monuments, and seeing nothing but dreadful houses and miserable objects. "This Greenwood!" She simply answered, "Yes; come right in and you shall see the monuments." I could only follow, wondering all the while if aunt was not losing her mind. A sweet-faced girl met us with a warm welcome to aunt and an earnest look at me. As she led the way within, aunt whispered: "One of the monuments, Clara." "What? I don't know what you mean." "Her name is Maggie," she quickly whispered back; "used to be called 'wild Maggie;' was one of the worst girls in this region. Never mind now, will tell you more hereafter. Take a good look at her, you'll see her again." Then I heard singing like the songs of many angels. A door swung open. We entered. It was a great company of children, black and white, some with sweet sad faces; others with evil looks, but all singing. Soon Maggie came in from another door and sat among them and I could hear her voice ring out in joyful strains, leading the rest. There was prayer and Bible reading, and such a good talk by a gentleman. It seemed like heaven, while many of the children, some partly blind, some lame, some pale and sad-faced, gathered around after meeting was out and seized aunt Joanna's hand, and seemed so happy. Another lady was there to whom they all pressed for a smile and a word. "That lady," said aunt, "is Sir Christopher Wren." "What _can_ you mean?" I asked. "Sir Christopher Wren was a _man_ who died in England more than a hundred years ago." Aunt Joanna only laughed and said, "And came to life again, my child. This is he, only greater." "What?" said I, more and more bewildered. But she went on: "Look around here at the Monuments. You knew Sir Christopher was the architect of the great Westminster Abbey of London, and that kings and statesmen and poets are buried there, and their names and deeds are written there; but if any one inquires for Sir Christopher Wren's monument, he is told to look at the wonderful building of which he was the architect." "I see," said I, "that lady has 'built up' Maggie."