A Cathedral Singer
A Cathedral Singer I Slowly on Morningside Heights rises the Cathedral of St. John the Divine: standing on a high rock under the Northern sky above the long wash of the untroubled sea, above the wash of the troubled waves of men. It has fit neighbors. Across the street to the north looms the many-towered gray-walled Hospital of St. Luke--cathedral of our ruins, of our sufferings and our dust, near the cathedral of our souls. Across the block to the south is situated a shed-like two-story building with dormer-windows and a crumpled three-sided roof, the studios of the National Academy of Design; and under that low brittle skylight youth toils over the shapes and colors of the visible vanishing paradise of the earth in the shadow of the cathedral which promises an unseen, an
she is presently to fling back with staggering effect. Just now her
pale face is hiding behind the collar of it, for she is quaking
inwardly though strung up to a terrible ordeal. The room is not as she
expected, but she knows that men are cunning.
AMY, frowning, 'Are these Mr. Rollo's chambers? The woman told me to
knock at this door.'
She remembers with a certain satisfaction that the woman had looked at
her suspiciously.
RICHARDSON, the tray in her hand to give her confidence, 'Yes, ma'am.
He will be down in a minute, ma'am. He is expecting you, ma'am.'
Expecting her, is he! Amy smiles the bitter smile of knowledge.
AMY. 'We shall see.' She looks about her. Sharply, 'Where is his man?'
RICHARDSON, with the guilt of the chop on her conscience, 'What man?'
AMY, brushing this subterfuge aside, 'His man. They always have a
man.'
RICHARDSON, with spirit, 'He is a man himself.'
AMY. 'Come, girl; who waits on him?'
A Cathedral Singer I Slowly on Morningside Heights rises the Cathedral of St. John the Divine: standing on a high rock under the Northern sky above the long wash of the untroubled sea, above the wash of the troubled waves of men. It has fit neighbors. Across the street to the north looms the many-towered gray-walled Hospital of St. Luke--cathedral of our ruins, of our sufferings and our dust, near the cathedral of our souls. Across the block to the south is situated a shed-like two-story building with dormer-windows and a crumpled three-sided roof, the studios of the National Academy of Design; and under that low brittle skylight youth toils over the shapes and colors of the visible vanishing paradise of the earth in the shadow of the cathedral which promises an unseen, an