IN THE BISHOP'S CARRIAGE
By MIRIAM MICHELSON
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