"Now, look here, Bishop Van Wagenen," I broke out, "if I were the abandoned little wretch your eyes accuse me of being I wouldn't be in your carriage confessing to you this blessed minute when it'd be so much easier not to. Surely--surely, in your experience you must have met girls that go wrong--and then go right for ever and ever, Amen. And I'm very right now. But--but it has been hard for me at times. And at those times--ah, you must know how sincerely I mean it--at those times I used to try to recall the sound of your voice, when you said you'd like to take me home with you and keep me. If I had been your daughter you'd have had a heart full of loving care for me. And yet, if I had been, and had known that benevolent fatherhood, I should need it less--so much less than I did the day I begged a prayer from you. But--it's all right now. You don't know--do you?--I'm Nance Olden."

That made him sit up and stare, I tell you. Even the Bishop had heard of Nancy Olden. But suddenly, unaccountably, there came a queer, sad look over his face, and his eyes wouldn't meet mine.

"You evidently forget that you have already told me you are the wife of Mr.--Mr. Ober--"

"Obermuller. Oh, that's all right." I laughed aloud. I was so relieved. "Of course I am, and he's my manager, and my playwright, and my secretary, and--my--my dear, dear boy. There!" I wasn't laughing at the end of it. I never can laugh when I try to tell what Fred is to me.

"There! there!" he said, patting me on the shoulder. "Forgive me, my dear. I am indeed glad to know that you are living happily. I have often thought of you--"

"Yes--I have even told Mrs. Van Wagenen about you and how I was attracted to you and believed--ahem!"

"Oh--oh, have you!" I gave a wriggle as I remembered that Maltese lace Maria wanted and that I--ugh!

But, luckily, he didn't notice. He had taken my hand and was looking at me over his spectacles in his dear, fatherly old way.