In the Bishops Carriage | Page 4

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