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 I wish--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 I was. He stiffened and sat up like a prim little school-boy, his soft eyes hurt like a dog's that's been wounded.