Suddenly she
became aware of a tall, familiar figure moving through the crowd.
It was Bruce Carrington. At the same moment he saw her, and with
a casual air that quite deceived her, approached; and Betty, who
had been feeling very lonely and very homesick, was somehow
instantly comforted at sight of him. She welcomed him almost as
a friend.
"You're leaving to-night?" he asked.
"Yes--isn't it miserable the way it rains? And why are they so
slow--why don't they hurry with that boat?"
"It's in the last lock now," explained Carrington.
"My clothes will all be ruined," said Betty. He regarded the
dress she wore with instant concern. "No--I mean the things in
my trunks; this doesn't matter," and Betty nodded toward the pile
under the steaming tarpaulin. Carrington's dark eyes opened with
an expression of mild wonder. And so those trunks were full of
clothes--Oh, Lord!--he looked down at the flushed, impatient face
beside him with amusement.
"I'll see that they are taken care of," he said, for the boat was
alongside the platform now; and gathering up Betty's hand
luggage, he helped her aboard.
By the time they had reached Wheeling, Betty had quite parted
with whatever superficial prejudice she might have had concerning
river-men. This particular one was evidently a very nice
river-man, an exception to his kind. She permitted him to assume
the burden of her plans, and no longer scanned the pages of her
Badger's and Porter's with a puckered brow.
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