Not really asleep this time, you know; just, just asleep enough
to be wide awake to any chance there was in it.

The horses had started, and the carriage was half-way across the
street before the Bishop noticed me.

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 softest heart--and the softest head. Just
listen.

"Lord bless me!" he exclaimed, hurriedly putting on his
spectacles, and looking about bewildered.

I was slumbering sweetly in the corner, but I could see 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," I murmured sleepily, letting my head rest on his
little, prim shoulder.

That comforted him, too. Hush your laughing, Tom Dorgan; I mean
calling him "daddy" seemed to kind of take the cuss off the
situation.