"That girl in seat fourteen, she's one perfect little lady," said
the dusky porter earnestly. "You jest observe her when you takes her
ticket. 'Member that lady with the two children what racketed all day
and all night? Well, she done fix those two kids up till you wouldn't
know 'em, and cheered their mother up, too. And all jest as pretty
and like a lady. That mighty fine lady in the red hat (I give her a
seat on the sunny side of the car a-purpose) wouldn't do nothing
yesterday when I axted her to hold a glass of milk while I went to
get a extra pillow. Said she wasn't going to be nursemaid to no
stranger's brats!"
So Betty was zealously looked after by the whole train crew, for the
story had spread, and the siege of Clenning had been a protracted one
with a corresponding fervency of gratitude for release; and at six
o'clock that night the attentive porter handed her down the steps to
the platform of the beautiful Union Station in Washington.
She had only her light traveling bag to carry, so she followed the
crowd through the gates, walking slowly and scanning the faces
anxiously in order that she might not pass her uncle. She did not
wish to go through the station out on the plaza, lest she make it
more difficult for him to find her, and she was keenly disappointed
that he had not been at the gate, for the train was half an hour late
and she had confidently expected him to be waiting.
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