I.

When the thing was at its hottest, I bolted. Tom, like the darling he

is--(Yes, you are, old fellow, you're as precious to me as--as you are

to the police--if they could only get their hands on you)--well, Tom

drew off the crowd, having passed the old gentleman's watch to me, and

I made for the women's rooms.

The station was crowded, as it always is in the afternoon, and in a

minute I was strolling into the big, square room, saying slowly to

myself to keep me steady:

"Nancy, you're a college girl--just in from Bryn Mawr to meet your

papa. Just see if your hat's on straight."

I did, going up to the big glass and looking beyond my excited face to

the room behind me. There sat the woman who can never nurse her baby

except where everybody can see her, in a railroad station. There was

the woman who's always hungry, nibbling chocolates out of a box; and

the woman fallen asleep, with her hat on the side, and hairpins

dropping out of her hair; and the woman who's beside herself with fear

that she'll miss her train; and the woman who is taking notes about the

other women's rigs. And--

And I didn't like the look of that man with the cap who opened the

swinging door a bit and peeped in. The women's waiting-room is no

place for a man--nor for a girl who's got somebody else's watch inside

her waist. Luckily, my back was toward him, but just as the door swung

back he might have caught the reflection of my face in a mirror hanging

opposite to the big one.

I retreated, going to an inner room where the ladies were having the

maid brush their gowns, soiled from suburban travel and the dirty

station.

The deuce is in it the way women stare. I took off my hat and jacket

for a reason to stay there, and hung them up as leisurely as I could.

"Nance," I said under my breath, to the alert-eyed, pug-nosed girl in

the mirror, who gave a quick glance about the room as I bent to wash my

hands, "women stare 'cause they're women. There's no meaning in their

look. If they were men, now, you might twitter."

I smoothed my hair and reached out my hand to get my hat and jacket

when--when--

Oh, it was long; long enough to cover you from your chin to your heels!

It was a dark, warm red, and it had a high collar of chinchilla that

was fairly scrumptious. And just above it the hat hung, a red-cloth

toque caught up on the side with some of the same fur.

The black maid misunderstood my involuntary gesture. I had all my best

duds on, and when a lot of women stare it makes the woman they stare at

peacock naturally, and--and--well, ask Tom what he thinks of my style

when I'm on parade. At any rate, it was the maid's fault. She took

down the coat and hat and held them for me as though they were mine.

What could I do, 'cept just slip into the silk-lined beauty and set the

toque on my head? The fool girl that owned them was having another

maid mend a tear in her skirt, over in the corner; the little place was

crowded. Anyway, I had both the coat and hat on and was out into the

big anteroom in a jiffy.

What nearly wrecked me was the cut of that coat. It positively made me

shiver with pleasure when I passed and saw myself in that long mirror.

My, but I was great! The hang of that coat, the long, incurving sweep

in the back, and the high fur collar up to one's nose--even if it is a

turned-up nose--oh!

I stayed and looked a second too long, for just as I was pulling the

flaring hat a bit over my face, the doors swung, as an old lady came

in, and there behind her was that same curious man's face with the cap

above it.

Trapped? Me? Not much! I didn't wait a minute, but threw the doors

open with a gesture that might have belonged to the Queen of Spain. I

almost ran into his arms. He gave an exclamation. I looked him

straight in the eyes, as I hooked the collar close to my throat, and

swept past him.

He weakened. That coat was too jolly much for him. It was for me,

too. As I ran down the stairs, its influence so worked on me that I

didn't know just which Vanderbilt I was.

I got out on the sidewalk all right, and was just about to take a car

when the turnstile swung round, and there was that same man with the

cap. His face was a funny mixture of doubt and determination. But it

meant the Correction for me.

"Nance Olden, it's over," I said to myself.

But it wasn't. For it was then that I caught sight of the carriage.

It was a fat, low, comfortable, elegant, sober carriage, wide and

well-kept, with rubber-tired wheels. And the two heavy horses were fat

and elegant and sober, too, and wide and well-kept. I didn't know it

was the Bishop's then--I didn't care whose it was. It was empty, and

it was mine. I'd rather go to the Correction--being too young to get

to the place you're bound for, Tom Dorgan--in it than in the patrol

wagon. At any rate, it was all the chance I had.

I slipped in, closing the door sharply behind me. The man on the

box--he was wide and well-kept, too--was tired waiting, I suppose, for

he continued to doze gently, his high coachman's collar up over his

ears. I cursed that collar, which had prevented his hearing the door

close, for then he might have driven off.

But it was great inside: soft and warm, the cushions of dark plum, the

seat wide and roomy, a church paper, some notes for the Bishop's next

sermon and a copy of Quo Vadis. I just snuggled down, trust me. I

leaned far back and lay low. When I did peek out the window, I saw the

man with the brass buttons and the cap turning to go inside again.

Victory! He had lost the scent. Who would look for Nancy Olden in the

Bishop's carriage?

Now, you know how early I got up yesterday to catch the train so's Tom

and I could come in with the people and be naturally mingling with

them? And you remember the dance the night before? I hadn't had more

than three hours' sleep, and the snug warmth of that coach was just

nuts to me, after the freezing ride into town. I didn't dare get out

for fear of some other man in a cap and buttons somewhere on the

lookout. I knew they couldn't be on to my hiding-place or they'd have

nabbed me before this. After a bit I didn't want to get out, I was so

warm and comfortable--and elegant. O Tom, you should have seen your

Nance in that coat and in the Bishop's carriage!

First thing I knew, I was dreaming you and I were being married, and

you had brass buttons all over you, and I had the cloak all right, but

it was a wedding-dress, and the chinchilla was a wormy sort of orange

blossoms, and--and I waked when the handle of the door turned and the

Bishop got in.

Asleep? That's what! I'd actually been asleep.

And what did I do now?

That's easy--fell asleep again. There wasn't anything else to do. Not

really asleep this time, you know; just, just asleep enough to be wide

awake to any chance there was in it.

The horses had started, and the carriage was half-way across the street

before the Bishop noticed me.

He was a little Bishop, not big and fat and well-kept like the rig, but

short and lean, with a little white beard and the softest eye--and the

softest heart--and the softest head. Just listen.

"Lord bless me!" he exclaimed, hurriedly putting on his spectacles, and

looking about bewildered.

I was slumbering sweetly in the corner, but I could see between my

lashes that he thought he'd jumped into somebody else's carriage.

The sight of his book and his papers comforted him, though, and before

he could make a resolution, I let the jolting of the carriage, as it

crossed the car-track, throw me gently against him.

"Daddy," I murmured sleepily, letting my head rest on his little, prim

shoulder.

That comforted him, too. Hush your laughing, Tom Dorgan; I mean

calling him "daddy" seemed to kind of take the cuss off the situation.

"My child," he began very gently.

"Oh, daddy," I exclaimed, snuggling down close to him, "you kept me

waiting so long I went to sleep. I thought you'd never come."

He put his arm about my shoulders in a fatherly way. You know, I found

out later the Bishop never had had a daughter. I guess he thought he

had one now. Such a simple, dear old soul! Just the same, Tom Dorgan,

if he had been my father, I'd never be doing stunts with tipsy men's

watches for you; nor if I'd had any father. Now, don't get mad. Think

of the Bishop with his gentle, thin old arm about my shoulders, holding

me for just a second as though I was his daughter! My, think of it!

And me, Nance Olden, with that fat man's watch in my waist and some

girl's beautiful long coat and hat on, all covered with chinchilla!

"There's some mistake, my little girl," he said, shaking me gently to

wake me up, for I was going to sleep again, he feared.

"Oh, I knew you were kept at the office," I interrupted quickly. I

preferred to be farther from the station with that girl's red coat

before I got out. "We've missed our train, anyway, haven't we? After

this, daddy dear, let's not take this route. If we'd go straight

through on the one road, we wouldn't have this drive across town every

time. I was wondering, before I fell asleep, what in the world I'd do

in this big city if you didn't come."

He forgot to withdraw his arm, so occupied was he by my predicament.

"What would you do, my child, if you had--had missed your--your father?"

Wasn't it clumsy of him? He wanted to break it to me gently, and this

was the best he could do.

"What would I do?" I gasped indignantly. "Why, daddy, imagine me

alone, and--and without money! Why--why, how can you--"

"There! there!" he said, patting me soothingly on the shoulder.

That baby of a Bishop! The very thought of Nancy Olden out alone in

the streets was too much for him.

He had put his free hand into his pocket and had just taken out a bill

and was trying to plan a way to offer it to me and reveal the fact to

poor, modest little Nance Olden that he was not her own daddy, when an

awful thing happened.

We had got up street as far as the opera-house, when we were caught in

the jam of carriages in front; the last afternoon opera of the season

was just over. I was so busy thinking what would be my next move that

I didn't notice much outside--and I didn't want to move, Tom, not a

bit. Playing the Bishop's daughter in a trailing coat of red, trimmed

with chinchilla, is just your Nancy's graft. But the dear little

Bishop gave a jump that almost knocked the roof off the carriage,

pulled his arm from behind me and dropped the ten-dollar bill he held

as though it burned him. It fell in my lap. I jammed it into my coat

pocket. Where is it now? Just you wait, Tom Dorgan, and you'll find

out.

I followed the Bishop's eyes. His face was scarlet now. Right next to

our carriage--mine and the Bishop's--there was another; not quite so

fat and heavy and big, but smart, I tell you, with the silver harness

jangling and the horses arching their backs under their blue-cloth

jackets monogrammed in leather. All the same, I couldn't see anything

to cause a loving father to let go his onliest daughter in such a

hurry, till the old lady inside bent forward again and gave us another

look.

Her face told it then. It was a big, smooth face, with

accordion-plaited chins. Her hair was white and her nose was curved,

and the pearls in her big ears brought out every ugly spot on her face.

Her lips were thin, and her neck, hung with diamonds, looked like a bed

with bolsters and pillows piled high, and her eyes--oh, Tom, her eyes!

They were little and very gray, and they bored their way straight

through the windows--hers and ours--and hit the Bishop plumb in the

face.

My, if I could only have laughed! The Bishop, the dear, prim little

Bishop in his own carriage, with his arm about a young woman in red and

chinchilla, offering her a bank-note, and Mrs. Dowager Diamonds, her

eyes popping out of her head at the sight, and she one of the lady

pillars of his church--oh, Tom! it took all of this to make that poor

innocent next to me realize how he looked in her eyes.

But you see it was over in a minute. The carriage wheels were

unlocked, and the blue coupe went whirling away, and we in the

plum-cushioned carriage followed slowly.

I decided that I'd had enough. Now and here in the middle of all these

carriages was a bully good time and place for me to get away. I turned

to the Bishop. He was blushing like a boy. I blushed, too. Yes, I

did, Tom Dorgan, but it was because I was bursting with laughter.

"Oh, dear!" I exclaimed in sudden dismay. "You're not my father."

"No--no, my dear, I--I'm not," he stammered, his face purple now with

embarrassment. "I was just trying to tell you, you poor little girl,

of your mistake and planning a way to help you, when--"

He made a gesture of despair toward the side where the coupe had been.

I covered my face with my hands, and shrinking over into the corner, I

cried:

"Let me out! let me out! You're not my father. Oh, let me out!"

"Why, certainly, child. But I'm old enough, surely, to be, and I

wish--I wish I were."

"You do!"

The dignity and tenderness and courtesy in his voice sort of sobered

me. But all at once I remembered the face of Mrs. Dowager Diamonds,

and I understood.

"Oh, because of her," I said, smiling and pointing to the side where

the coupe had been.

My, but it was a rotten bad move! I ought to have been strapped for

it. Oh, Tom, Tom, it takes more'n a red coat with chinchilla to make a

black-hearted thing like me into the girl he thought I was.

He stiffened and sat up like a prim little school-boy, his soft eyes

hurt like a dog's that's been wounded.

I won't tell you what I did then. No, I won't. And you won't

understand, but just that minute I cared more for what he thought of me

than whether I got to the Correction or anywhere else.

It made us friends in a minute, and when he stopped the carriage to let

me out, my hand was still in his. But I wouldn't go. I'd made up my

mind to see him out of his part of the scrape, and first thing you know

we were driving up toward the Square, if you please, to Mrs. Dowager

Diamonds' house.

He thought it was his scheme, the poor lamb, to put me in her charge

till my lost daddy could send for me. He'd no more idea that I was

steering him toward her, that he was doing the only thing possible, the

only square thing by his reputation, than he had that Nance Olden had

been raised by the Cruelty, and then flung herself away on the first

handsome Irish boy she met.

That'll do, Tom.

Girls, if you could have seen Mrs. Dowager Diamonds' face when she came

down the stairs, the Bishop's card in her hand, and into the gorgeous

parlor, it'd have been as good as a front seat at the show.

She was mad, and she was curious, and she was amazed, and she was

disarmed; for the very nerve of his bringing me to her staggered her so

that she could hardly believe she'd seen what she had.

"My dear Mrs. Ramsay," he began, confused a bit by his remembrance of

how her face had looked fifteen minutes before, "I bring to you an

unfortunate child, who mistook my carriage for her father's this

afternoon at the station. She is a college girl, a stranger in town,

and till her father claims her--"

Oh, the baby! the baby! She was stiffening like a rod before his very

eyes. How did his words explain his having his arm round the

unfortunate child? His conscience was so clean that the dear little

man actually overlooked the fact that it wasn't my presence in the

carriage, but his conduct there that had excited Mrs. Dowager Diamonds.

And didn't the story sound thin? I tell you, Tom, when it comes to

lying to a woman you've got to think up something stronger than it

takes to make a man believe in you--if you happen to be female yourself.

I didn't wait for him to finish, but waltzed right in. I danced

straight up to that side of beef with the diamonds still on it, and

flinging my arms about her, turned a coy eye on the Bishop.

"You said your wife was out of town, daddy," I cried gaily. "Have you

got another wife besides mummy?"

The poor Bishop! Do you think he tumbled? Not a bit--not a bit. He

sat there gasping like a fish, and Mrs. Dowager Diamonds, surprised by

my sudden attack, stood bolt upright, about as pleasant to hug as--as

you are, Tom, when you're jealous.

The trouble with the Bishop's set is that it's deadly slow. Now, if I

had really been the Bishop's daughter--all right, I'll go on.

"Oh, mummy," I went on quickly. You know how I said it, Tom--the way I

told you after that last row that Dan Christensen wasn't near so

good-looking as you--remember? "Oh, mummy, you don't know how good it

feels to get home. Out there at that awful college, studying and

studying and studying, sometimes I thought I'd lose my senses. There's

a girl out there now suffering from nervous prostration. She worked so

hard preparing for the mid-years. What's her name? I can't think--I

can't think, my head's so tired. But it sounds like mine, a lot like

mine. Once--I think it was yesterday--I thought it was mine, and I made

up my mind suddenly to come right home and bring it with me. But it

can't be mine, can it? It can't be my name she's got. It can't be,

mummy, say it can't, say it can't!"

Tom, I ought to have gone on the stage. I'll go yet, when you're sent

up some day. Yes, I will. You'll be where you can't stop me.

I couldn't see the Bishop, but the Dowager--oh, I'd got her. Not so

bad an old body, either, if you only take her the right way. First, she

was suspicious, and then she was scared. And then, bit by bit, the

stiffness melted out of her, her arms came up about me, and there I

was, lying all comfy, with the diamonds on her neck boring rosettes in

my cheeks, and she a-sniffling over me and patting me and telling me

not to get excited, that it was all right, and now I was home mummy

would take care of me, she would, that she would.

She did. She got me on to a lounge, soft as--as marshmallows, and she

piled one silk pillow after another behind my back.

"Come, dear, let me help you off with your coat," she cooed, bending

over me.

"Oh, mummy, it's so cold! Can't I please keep it on?"

To let that coat off me was to give the whole thing away. My rig

underneath, though good enough for your girl, Tom, on a holiday, wasn't

just what they wear in the Square. And, d'ye know, you'll say it's

silly, but I had a conviction that with that coat I should say good-by

to the nerve I'd had since I got into the Bishop's carriage,--and from

there into society. I let her take the hat, though, and I could see by

the way she handled it that it was all right--the thing; her kind, you

know. Oh, the girl I got it from had good taste, all right.

I closed my eyes for a moment as I lay there and she stood stroking my

hair. She must have thought I'd fallen asleep, for she turned to the

Bishop, and holding out her hand, she said softly:

"My dear, dear Bishop, you are the best-hearted, the saintliest man on

earth. Because you are so beautifully clean-souled yourself, you must

pardon me. I am ashamed to say it, but I shall have no rest till I do.

When I saw you in the carriage downtown, with that poor, demented

child, I thought, for just a moment--oh, can you forgive me? It shows

what an evil mind I have. But you, who know so well what Edward is,

what my life has been with him, will see how much reason I have to be

suspicious of all men!"

I shook, I laughed so hard. What a corker her Edward must be! See,

Tom, poor old Mrs. Dowager up in the Square having the same devil's

luck with her man as Molly Elliott down in the Alley has with hers. I

wonder if you're all alike. No, for there's the Bishop. He had taken

her hand sympathizingly, forgivingly, but his silence made me curious.

I knew he wouldn't let the old lady believe for a moment I was luny, if

once he could be sure himself that I wasn't. You lie, Tom Dorgan, he

wouldn't! Well--But the poor baby, how could he expect to see through

a game that had caught the Dowager herself? Still, I could hear him

walking softly toward me, and I felt him looking keenly down at me long

before I opened my eyes.

When I did, you should have seen him jump. Guilty he felt. I could see

the blood rush up under his clear, thin old skin, soft as a baby's, to

find himself caught trying to spy out my secret.

I just looked, big-eyed, up at him. You know; the way Molly's kid

does, when he wakes. I looked a long, long time, as though I was

puzzled.

"Daddy," I said slowly, sitting up. "You--you are my daddy, ain't you?"

"Yes--yes, of course." It was the Dowager who got between him and me,

hinting heavily at him with nods and frowns. But the dear old fellow

only got pinker in the effort to look a lie and not say it. Still, he

looked relieved. Evidently he thought I was luny all right, but that I

had lucid intervals. I heard him whisper something like this to the

Dowager just before the maid came in with tea for me.

Yes, Tom Dorgan, tea for Nancy Olden off a silver salver, out of a cup

like a painted eggshell. My, but that almost floored me! I was afraid

I'd give myself dead away with all those little jars and jugs. So I

said I wasn't hungry, though, Lord knows, I hadn't had anything to eat

since early morning. But the Dowager sent the maid away and took the

tray herself, operating all the jugs and pots for me, and then tried to

feed me the tea. She was about as handy as Molly's little sister is

with the baby--but I allowed myself to be coaxed, and drank it down.

Tea, Tom Dorgan. Ever taste tea? If you knew how to behave yourself

in polite society, I'd give you a card to my friend, the Dowager, up in

the Square.

How to get away! That was the thing that worried me. I'd just made up

my mind to have a lucid interval, when cr-creak, the front door opened,

and in walked--

Tom, you're mighty cute--so cute you'll land us both behind bars some

day--but you can't guess who came in on our little family party.

Yes--oh, yes, you've met him.

Well, the old duffer whose watch was ticking inside my waist that very

minute! Yes, sir, the same red-faced, big-necked fellow we'd spied

getting full at the little station in the country. Only, he was a bit

mellower than when you grabbed his chain. Well, he was Edward.

I almost dropped the cup when I saw him. The Dowager took it from me,

saying:

"There, dear, don't be nervous. It's only--only--"

She got lost. It couldn't be my daddy--the Bishop was that. But it

was her husband, so who could it be?

"Evening, Bishop. Hello, Henrietta, back so soon from the opera?"

roared Edward, in a big, husky voice. He'd had more since we saw him,

but he walked straight as the Bishop himself, and he's a dear little

ramrod. "Ah!"--his eyes lit up at sight of me--"ah, Miss--Miss--of

course, I've met the young lady, Henrietta, but hang me if I haven't

forgotten her name."

"Miss--Miss Murieson," lied the old lady, glibly. "A--a relative."

"Why, mummy!" I said reproachfully.

"There--there. It's only a joke. Isn't it a joke, Edward?" she

demanded, laughing uneasily.

"Joke?" he repeated with a hearty bellow of laughter. "Best kind of a

joke, I call it, to find so pretty a girl right in your own house, eh,

Bishop?"

"Why does he call my father 'Bishop', mummy?"

I couldn't help it. The fun of hearing the Dowager lie and knowing the

Bishop beside himself with the pain of deception was too much for me.

I could see she didn't dare trust her Edward with my sad story.

"Ho! ho! The Bishop--that's good. No, my dear Miss Murieson, if this

lady's your mother, why, I must be--at least, I ought to be, your

father. As such, I'm going to have all the privileges of a

parent--bless me, if I'm not."

I don't suppose he'd have done it if he'd been sober, but there's no

telling, when you remember the reputation the Dowager had given him.

But he'd got no further than to put his arm around me when both the

Bishop and the Dowager flew to the rescue. My, but they were shocked!

I couldn't help wondering what they'd have done if Edward had happened

to see the Bishop in the same sort of tableau earlier in the afternoon.

But I got a lucid interval just then, and distracted their attention.

I stood for a moment, my head bent as though I was thinking deeply.

"I think I'll go now," I said at length. "I--I don't understand

exactly how I got here," I went on, looking from the Bishop to the

Dowager and back again, "or how I happened to miss my father. I'm

ever--so much obliged to you, and if you will give me my hat, I'll take

the next train back to college."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said the Dowager, promptly. "My dear,

you're a sweet girl that's been studying too hard. You must go to my

room and rest--"

"And stay for dinner. Don't you care. Sometimes I don't know how I

get here myself." Edward winked jovially.

Well, I did. While the Dowager's back was turned, I gave him the

littlest one, in return for his. It made him drunker than ever.

"I think," said the Bishop, grimly, with a significant glance at the

Dowager, as he turned just then and saw the old cock ogling me, "the

young lady is wiser than we. I'll take her to the station--"

The station! Ugh! Not Nance Olden, with the red coat still on.

"Impossible, my dear Bishop," interrupted the Dowager. "She can't be

permitted to go back on the train alone."

"Why, Miss--Miss Murieson, I'll see you back all the way to the college

door. Not at all, not at all. Charmed. First, we'll have dinner--or,

first I'll telephone out there and tell 'em you're with us, so that if

there's any rule or anything of that sort--"

The telephone! This wretched Edward with half his wits gave me more

trouble than the Bishop and the Dowager put together. She jumped at

the idea, and left the room, only to come back again to whisper to me:

"What name, my dear?"

"What name? what name?" I repeated blankly. What name, indeed. I

wonder how "Nance Olden" would have done.

"Don't hurry, dear, don't perplex yourself," she whispered anxiously,

noting my bewilderment. "There's plenty of time, and it makes no

difference--not a particle, really."