"Now, that's like my own, own Bishop!" I cried. Mag--Mag, he was blushing like a boy, a prim, rather scared little school-boy that somehow, yet--oh, I knew he must feel kindly to me! I felt so fond of him. "You see, Bishop Van Wagenen," I began softly, "I never had a father and--" "Bless me! But you told me that day you had mistaken me for--for him." The baby! I had forgotten what that old Edward told me--that this trusting soul actually still believed all I'd told him. What was I to do? I tell you, Mag, it's no light thing to get accustomed to telling the truth. You never know where it'll lead you. Here was I--just a clever little lie or two and the dear old Bishop would be happy and contented again. But no; that fatal habit that I've acquired of telling the truth to Fred and you mastered me--and I fell. "You know, Bishop," I said, shutting my eyes and speaking fast to get it over--as I imagine you must, Mag, when you confess to Father Phelan--"that was all a--a little farce-comedy--the whole business--all of it--every last word of it!" "A comedy!" I opened my eyes to laugh at him; he was so bewildered. "I mean a--a fib; in fact, many of them. I--I was just--it was long ago--and I had to make you believe--" His soft old eyes looked at me unbelieving. "You don't mean to say you deliberately lied!" Now, that was what I did mean--just what I did mean--but not in that tone of voice. But what could I do? I just looked at him and nodded. Oh, Maggie, I felt so little and so nasty! I haven't felt like that since I left the Cruelty. And I'm not nasty, Maggie, and I'm Fred Obermuller's wife, and-- And that put a backbone in me again. Fred Obermuller's wife just won't let anybody think worse of her than she can help--from sheer love and pride in that big, clever husband of hers. "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. I looked at him puzzled. "Tell me what it is," I said.