IN THE BISHOP'S CARRIAGE
By MIRIAM MICHELSON





I.

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
face to the room behind me. There sat the woman who can never
nurse her baby except where everybody can see her, in a railroad
station. There was the woman who's always hungry, nibbling
chocolates out of a box; and the woman fallen asleep, with her
hat on the side, and hairpins dropping out of her hair; and the
woman who's beside herself with fear that she'll miss her train;
and the woman who is taking notes about the other women's rigs.