It fell in my lap. I jammed it into my coat pocket. Where is 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 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