"But your sister!" stammered Betty. "She doesn't know me. What will
she say?"

"She'll say you have eyes just like Juliet, the little sister who
died when she was about your age," declared Dan Gowdy gently. "Don't
you fret, Sister, she'll be glad to have you. Now here's your ticket,
and I'll talk to Steve as soon as you're on board the train. That's
her smoke now."

Betty was conscious that there was something else on her mind, but
it was not until she was seated in the train and had had her ticket
punched that she remembered. She had thanked kind Dan Gowdy rather
incoherently, though as warmly as she could, and had only half heard
his explanation that she was taking the 12:01 train up the line
instead of the 12:03 down, and it was no wonder that in the bustle of
boarding the train she had forgotten her intention of telegraphing to
her Uncle Dick. He had given her his address as the Willard Hotel,
and the letter was already six days old.

"But I really think in the morning will be better," decided Betty,
watching the flying landscape. "He wouldn't have given me the address
if he didn't expect to be there for some time. Before I take the
Washington train I'll telegraph him and let him know when to meet me."

The train made three stops before Halperin was reached, and Betty
stepped down to find herself before a pretty, up-to-date station
built of cream-colored brick, with a crowd of stylish summer folk
mingling on the platform with farmers and townspeople. Several
automobiles were backed up waiting for passengers, and there were one
or two old-fashioned hacks. A trolley car was rounding the street