Then Salvatore saw that Anna was looking toward them. She could see the statue of Garibaldi from up there, for sure, and she must be trying to find him and Angelo. With the water from the hoses and the smoke from the floor below, though, it mightn’t be so easy to make them out. He waved. Beside him, little Angelo waved too. But Anna didn’t wave back.

“Are we waving at Anna?” Angelo asked. “Can you see her?”

Salvatore didn’t answer. One of the girls had jumped. The young man jumped after her. Then Anna jumped.

Angelo didn’t see.

“Wait here,” Salvatore cried, and ran toward the building.

The nets were useless, of course. The firemen had only put them there as a last resort. By the time Salvatore got there, the fire chief was already telling his men to take them down again.

The young man who jumped had gone straight through the net. Anna and the other girls who’d followed her had hardly been slowed at all before they hit the sidewalk. Amazingly, Anna’s face was quite preserved, though the back of her head was entirely crushed. He didn’t need the fireman to tell him she was dead.

“That’s my sister,” he told the fireman, and gave him his name. “I have to take my little brother home, then I’ll be back.” He was amazed how composed he was.

He got back to the statue.

“Did Anna jump?” Angelo asked.

“Yes. She’s all right, but she’s hurt her leg, so they may take her to the hospital. She told me to take you home, and tell Mama. Then we’ll all go to see her later.”

“I want to see her now.”

“No, she told us to go straight home.”

“Are you sure she’s all right?”

“She’s fine.”

On May 23, 1911, no less a person than the President of the United States was in the City of New York for an important ceremony. On the site of the old fortress-like reservoir, the big library on Fifth Avenue was finally opening for business.

The collection, based on the 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.”