The ferry-boat bumped into its dock at Twenty-third, Street, and Betty picked up her box and started off with it. A porter met her at the gangplank, and she gave it to him with an injunction to hold it quite level. For it would be a pity to tumble the neat arrangement of Ellen’s goodies into an unappetizing mass.
Down-stairs they went, and into the waiting-room, where Betty paused “under the clock.”
Dorothy hadn’t arrived, but Betty remembered, with a smile, that she was nearly always late, so, remunerating the porter, she sat down to wait, with her box beside her.
She had on a suit of embroidered blue linen, and a broad-brimmed straw hat trimmed with brown roses.
The big hat suited Betty’s round face and curly hair, and, all unconsciously, she made a pretty picture as she sat there waiting. Before she had time to feel anxious about Dorothy’s non-appearance, a messenger-boy in uniform came toward her.
“Is this Miss McGuire?” he said, touching his cap respectfully.
“Yes,” said Betty, wondering how he knew her.
“Then this is for you. The lady told me how you looked, and said I’d find you right here. No answer.”
The boy turned away, and in a moment was lost in the crowd, leaving Betty in possession of a note addressed in Dorothy’s handwriting.
She tore it open and read: