rself, operating all the jugs and pots for me, and then tried to
feed me the tea. She was about as handy as Molly's little sister is
with the baby--but I allowed myself to be coaxed, and drank it down.

Tea, Tom Dorgan. Ever taste tea? If you knew how to behave yourself
in polite society, I'd give you a card to my friend, the Dowager, up in
the Square.

How to get away! That was the thing that worried me. I'd just made up
my mind to have a lucid interval, when cr-creak, the front door opened,
and in walked--

Tom, you're mighty cute--so cute you'll land us both behind bars some
day--but you can't guess who came in on our little family party.
Yes--oh, yes, you've met him.

Well, the old duffer whose watch was ticking inside my waist that very
minute! Yes, sir, the same red-faced, big-necked fellow we'd spied
getting full at the little station in the country. Only, he was a bit
mellower than when you grabbed his chain. Well, he was Edward.

I almost dropped the cup when I saw him. The Dowager took it from me,
saying:

"There, dear, don't be nervous. It's only--only--"

She got lost. It couldn't be my daddy--the Bishop was that. But it
was her husband, so who could it be?

"Evening, Bishop. Hello, Henrietta, back so soon from the opera?"
roared Edward, in a big, husky voice. He'd had more since we saw him,
but he walked straight as the Bishop himself, and he's a dear little
ramrod. "Ah!"--his eyes lit up at sight of me--"ah, Miss--Miss--of
course, I've met the young lady, Henrietta, but hang me if I haven't
forgotten her name."

"Miss--Miss Murieson," lied the old lady, glibly. "A--a relative."

"Why, mummy!" I said reproachfully.

"There--there. It's only a joke. Isn't it a joke, Edward?" she
demanded, laughing uneasily.

"Joke?" he repeated with a hearty bellow of laughter. "Best kind of a
joke, I call it, to find so pretty a girl right in your own house, eh,
Bishop?"

"Why does he call my father 'Bishop', mummy?"

I couldn't help it. The fun of hearing the Dowager lie and knowing the
Bishop beside himself with the pain of deception was too much for me.
I could see she didn't dare trust her Edward with my sad story.

"Ho! ho! The Bishop--that's good. No, my dear Miss Murieson, if this
lady's your mother, why, I must be--at least, I ought to be, your
father. As such, I'm going to have all the privileges of a
parent--bless me, if I'm not."

I don't suppose he'd have done it if he'