Betty stood under a dripping umbrella in the midst of a drenching
downpour, her boxes and trunks forming a neat pyramid of
respectable size beside her. She was somewhat perturbed in
spirit, since they contained much elaborate finery all in the
very latest eastern fashion, spoils that were the fruit of a
heated correspondence with Tom, who hadn't seemed at all alive to
the fact that Betty was nearly eighteen and in her own right a
young woman of property. A tarpaulin had been thrown over the
heap, and with one eye on it and the other on the stretch of
yellow canal up which they were bringing the fast packet Pioneer,
she was waiting impatiently to see her belongings transferred to
a place of safety.

Just arrived by the four-horse coach that plyed regularly between
Washington and Georgetown, she had found the long board platform
beside the canal crowded with her fellow passengers, their number
augmented by those who delight to share vicariously in travel and
to whom the departure of a stage or boat was a matter of urgent
interest requiring their presence, rain or shine. 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?"