The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 10, 1904, Page 1

" THERE WAS THE U GRY, P NEVER NORSE S5TER BEIBY N the Bishop’s Carriage” is the work of a Cali- fornia writer, Miriam Michelson, who is too well known as a writer of short stories to need an introduc- ¢ tion. The story, which is a pure narrative, is an elabor: tion of a short story of the same title published in Ains- lee’s Magazine, and has been ved throughout the untry with unstinted ¢ r its entire origi- ty and for the fresh and wkling vivaeity with ich it is told. The story Is with the regeneration nee Olden, a female dis- le of Fagin, whe, graceless mgh she first appears, yet, ith her subtle, ingratiat- ays, steals into the sym- ithies of the veader as non- halantly as she steals the \ rwn wat the cloak. the car- riage ride. and the cood will i the Bishop. Ihe story will be pub- lished complete in four in- stallments. by the Bobbs-Merril Co.) thing was at its hot. Tom, like the you are, you're as precious you ‘are to the pollce—if 7 get their hands on you) drew off the crowd, having d gentleman’s watch to rede for the women’s rooms. on was crowded as it al- o the afternoon, and in a min- & strolling into the big square darling he is— (Yes, old fellow, seying slowly to myself to keep me stead Vancy, you're a college girl—just in B Mawr to meet papa. Just Seedf your hat’s on straight.” 1 aid going up to the big glass and looking beyond my excited face to the bet me. There sat the womdn who can never nurse her baby except here everybody can see her, in-a There was “the woman who's always hungry, nibbling 1 of a box; and < the e side and hairpins -dropping out of hair; and the woman who's be- herself with fear that she’ll miss r train; and the woman who is tak- about the other women's didn’t like the look of that man who opened the swinging peeped in. The women’s no place for a man— who's got somebody else's a her waist. - Luckily, my ward him, but just as the back he might have caught fie n of my face in’a.mirror te to the Big one. Jing to an inner room & were having the maid the wns, soiled from subur- i the dirty station. t the way the women I took off my hat and jacket 10 stay there, and hung eisurely as 1 could. oe 1 said under my breath, to alert-eyed, pug-nosed girl in the rer, who € & quick glance about vom &s I bent to wash my hands, nmen stare ‘cause they're women. ere’s mo meaning in thelr Jook. If were men, now, you might twit- 1 smoothed my halir and reached out my hand to get my hat and jacket when—when— Oh, it was long; leng enough . to cover you from your chin-to your heels! It was & dark, warm red, and“t had & high collar of chinchilla that was fairly scrumptious. “And just above 1t the hat hung, & red-cloth toque caught up on the side with some of the same fur. The black meaid misunderstood my involuntary gesture.'tI‘had all my ‘best duds on, and when a“lot* of - womeén “up*over his ears. falling asleep with her hat on ' ERE AT THE WOMAN WO CAZ & EXCEPT WEERE ZVERYBOOY CAN SEEHER. * stare it makes the woman they stare at peacock naturally, and—and—w: ask Tom what he thinks of my when I'm on parade. At any rate, was the maid’s fault. She took down the coat and hat and heid them for me as though they were mine. What could I do ’cept just slip into the silk- i beauty, and set the toque on my The foal girl that owned them was having another maid mend a tear in her skirt, over in the corner; the lit- ce was crowded. Anyway, 1 had the coat and hat on and into the What wrecked me was of ceat. It positively made me shiver with pleasure when I passed and saw myself in that long miri My, but T was great! The hang of that at he long, Incurving sweep in the back d the high fur collar up to one's nose—even if it is a turned-up 1 stayed and looked a second too long, for hat a just as T v s pulling the flaring bit over my face the doors swung as an old lady came in, and there behind her was that same curi- ous man’s face with the cap above it. Trapped? Me? Not much! 1 didn’t walt 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 exclamiation. I looked him straight in tue eyes; as T hooked the collar close to nly throat and swept past him. He weakened. That coat was too jolly much for him. It was for me, too. As I rdn down the stairs its in- fluence so worked on. me that I didn’t know just which Vanderbilt T was. T got out on the sidewalk all right, and was just about to take a car when the turnstile swung round, and there was that sdme man with the cap. His face was a funny mixture of doubt and determination. But it meant the Cor- rection for me. “Nance Olden, 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 I cursed that collar, * whith had prevented his hearing the adar¥close,’ for ‘then he might have drfven’oft. *, B{t” it' was great inside; soft and warm, ‘the’ cushions of dark plum, the seat wide and roomy, a church paper, some mbtes ‘for “the Bishop's next ser- mon and a copy of Quo Vadls. I just snuggled down, trust me. T leaned far back and lay low. When T did peek out-of tge 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 Jook for Nancy Olden in the Bishop's carriage? Now, vou kiiow how early T 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? 1 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 cdp and buttons somewhere on the lookout. T 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 rhould have seen your Nance in that coat and In the Bishop's carriage! First thing I knew T 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 & 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! TI'd actually been asleep. And what 14 T do now? ; That's easy—fell asleep agalin, ' There wasn't anything else to do. ‘redily asléep' this time, you'knbw; just, it's over,” I sald to WOrTAN WIHOS RLWAYS Not Ao e woremy FERLLEN FSLEEL WITR HER HZ T ON vk SIDE AND FAIRFINS DROPPING OUF OF MER HAMR; " just aslsep enough to be wide awake tc any chance there was in it. he horses had started, and the car- riage was half way across the street before the Bishop noticed nie. 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 soft- est heart—and the softest head. Just listen. “Lord bless me!” he exclaimed, hur- riedly putting on his spectacles, and looking about bewildered. 1 was slumbering sweetly in the cor- ner, but I could sce 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,” T murmured sler; ting my head rest on his Hide prtt shoulder. That comforted him, too. ¥ laughing, Tom Dorgan; I mea him “daddy” seemed to Kind the cuss off the situation. i & My child,” he began very & e “Ob, daddy.”.I-exclabmed 27 e down close to him, “you ket ing so long I went to sieep. you'd wever come’ He put his arm about my & in a fatherly way. You knowv out later the Bishop neve daughter. 1 guess he thoug one now. Such a simple, dear Just the same, Tom Dorgan, been my father, I'd never stunts with tipsy men's|wa you; nor if I'd had any fathe Sow, don't get mad. ‘Think of the \Bishop with his gentle, thin old arm about my shoulders, holding mé" for just a sec- ond as though I was his daughter! My, think of it! And me, Nance Old- en, with that fat man’s watch in my walst and some. girl's beautiful long coat and hat on, all covered with chin- chilla! “There’s some mistake, my little girl,” he said, shaking me gently to wake me up, for 1 was going to sleep again he feared. “Oh, I knew you were kept at the office,” I interrupted quickly. I pre- ferred 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, se 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 indig- nantly. 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 thad” 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 awtul thing happened. We had got up street as far as the opera-house, when we were caught ‘m 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 lit- tle 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. 1 jammed it into my coat pocket. ‘Where 1s 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 gee anything to causea loving father to let go his onliest daughter in such a Hurry, <k e 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. arzr 2 LIRVIISG . PESTED THE..QLD GEINTLE MIANS . IWATCH 10 7= Her lips were thin, and - REYY OFF IHE CEOWD, her neck, hung with dlamonds, looked Bishop, the dear, prim little *Bishop like'a bed with bolsters and pillows in his own carriage, with . his’ arm piled high, and her eyes—oh, Tom, her about a young woman in red and chin- eyes! They were little and very gray, chilla, offering her a bank-note, and +and they .Wored their. way straight ; Mrs. Dowager Diamonds, her eyes pop- through the windows—hers' and ours— ! ping out of her head at the sight, and and hit the Bishop plumb.in the face. (she one of the,lady - pillats of ¢ his My, it I could only have laughed! The 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 all,over in & min- ute. The carriage wheels were um- locked, and the blue coupe went whirl- ing ‘away, and we in'the plum-cush- :ioned carriage followed. slowly. I decided that I'q had enouzh. Now