Two tears splashed down on the brown willow basket-lid, and then--No
telling what would have happened next, had not the jungle opened,
without waiting for a brave heart and a courteous tongue on Betty's
part. Coming toward her all in dainty gray and white was a lady she
would have recognised anywhere. That face, that had been the Madonna of
her dreams, both waking and sleeping, since the first night it had kept
its smiling vigil above her little bed, could belong to no one but her
beautiful godmother.

With a glad little cry of recognition she sprang forward, catching one
slim gray-gloved hand in hers. The white sunbonnet fell back, the brown
eyes looked out from a tangle of dusky curls with a world of loving
admiration in their depths, and the next instant Betty was folded in
Mrs. Sherman's arms.

"Joyce Allen," she exclaimed, "all over again! Joyce's own little
daughter! I would have known you anywhere, dear, I think, even--" She
did not finish the sentence. Even in such an outlandish costume, was
what she had started to say. She had seen Betty as the child stepped off
the train, but had not given her a second glance, as it never occurred
to her that the little guest she had come to meet would travel in a
sunbonnet.

But Betty was blissfully unconscious of her appearance. As they crossed
the city to a suburban depot, she was so interested in the mysteries of
the trolley-car on which they rode, so absorbed by the great
show-windows they passed, and so amazed by the city sights and sounds on
every hand, that she was not conscious of the fact that she even had a
head. It might have been bald for all she was concerned about the
covering of it.