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 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 Ibent 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 Iwish--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 Iwas.

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.