New York - The Novel

amalgamation of the Astor and Lenox libraries, was huge. Backed with bequests from Watts and Tilden, the splendid new beaux arts building, designed by Carrère & Hastings, stretched across the two blocks from Fortieth Street to Forty-second. It might have taken an inordinate time to build, but it was worth it. The marbled facade and broad steps, flanked by two lions, could hardly be more magnificent, yet the place was also welcoming. Thanks to a huge donation from Andrew Carnegie, the New York Public Library system was among the most generous free institutions in the world.
    Though the building would not be open to the general public until the following day, there was quite a crowd of the city’s richest and most important folk looking round after President Taft had done the honors.
    Old Hetty Master moved rather slowly.
    “I’m so glad,” she said to Mary O’Donnell, “that I’ve got you to go round with me.”
    The last year had seen rather a decline in Hetty, which was only to be expected at her age. As they moved through the great marble entrance hall, however, she insisted on walking up the stairs.
    “It’s two floors up,” Mary warned her. And the floors were terribly high.
    “I can walk,” the old lady insisted. “And I want to see this Reading Room they keep talking about.” The Reading Room on the third floor spanned the entire length of the building, almost a hundred yards. “I remember coming here when they had the Crystal Palace just behind it,” she remarked.
    “I know,” said Mary.
    It took time, but they got to the Reading Room, and when they did, they were impressed. It stretched away like one of the vast corridors in the Vatican.
    “Well,” said Hetty, “it’s certainly large.”
    “It is,” said Mary.
    “I hope,” said Hetty, as she gazed at the rows of tables, “that they can find that many people who want to read. I always fall asleep in libraries, don’t you?”
    “I hardly use them,” Mary confessed.
    “Plenty of room to sleep in here,” said Hetty. “Let’s go down.”
    It was a bright day outside as they came slowly down the steps onto Fifth Avenue.
    “I’m pleased I saw it,” said Hetty, “but I’ll be glad to go home. I feel a little tired.” She paused while Mary looked out for a cab. “Did I tell you,” she said, “that my husband proposed to me right here, when they’d just built the reservoir?”
    “Yes,” said Mary, with a smile.
    “That was a wonderful day,” said Hetty.
    “It must have been,” said Mary.
    Then Hetty suddenly said, “Oh.”
    “What is it?” said Mary.
    But Hetty didn’t say anything. She staggered, as if she’d suddenly been struck.
    “Are you all right?” said Mary. But before she finished the question, Hetty started to fall. Mary tried to hold her, but she couldn’t, and Hetty crashed to the ground.
    It was quite a piece of luck that a shoeshine boy should have been passingright beside them just then. He put down his things and helped them right away. He propped Hetty up, and while Mary held her, he hailed a taxi, and then, since Hetty seemed to be unconscious, he helped Mary get her into the taxi and asked if he should come with her to the house. “Oh,” said Mary, “that would be so kind.”
    So the boy put his things on the floor of the taxi, and Mary told the taxi to go down Fifth, and in no time they were on their way. Hetty’s mouth had fallen open; she seemed to shudder. The boy leaned forward and propped her up, awkwardly, in the corner of the seat.
    “Gramercy Park,” said the boy to the driver.
    “How do you know that?” asked Mary.
    “Been to the house,” said the boy.
    Then Mary realized she had seen him before.
    “Why, you’re the brother of the Italian girl who came to lunch a few months back,” she said. “Your sister works at the Triangle Factory.”
    The boy said nothing. And Mary remembered the terrible tragedy that had happened there in March. That awful fire. It was a huge scandal—one hundred and forty people had died, mostly the Jewish girls who worked there.
    “I hope your sister was all right,” she said anxiously.
    For a moment, Salvatore Caruso did not reply. He was looking at the older woman. He realized, which Mary still did not, that Hetty Master had just died. That would be enough for this nice lady to worry about today.
    “She’s fine,” he said.

Empire State
1917
    F OR OVER A century, the United States of America had avoided the tragic quarrels and follies