There was a general uprising of the passengers.  The crowd pushed toward the door, carrying the startled child with them as they surged down the aisle, and all at once—­as she stepped off the train—­she found herself in the depths of her dreaded jungle.  It was so confusing she did not know which way to turn.  The roar and clang of a great city smote on her ears as she stood in the big Union depot, helpless, bewildered, and as lost as a stray kitten in the midst of that noisy, pushing crowd.  Sharp elbows jostled her this way and that; strange faces streamed past her by thousands, it seemed.  How could anybody find anybody else in such a whirlpool of people?  Hunting for a needle in a haystack seemed nothing in comparison to finding her godmother in such a crowd.

Betty stood looking around her helplessly in the middle of the overpowering din of whistles and bells and the thunder of wheels on the cobblestones outside.  That moment she would have given anything she owned to be safely back on the quiet farm.  The big brown eyes in the depths of the sunbonnet filled with tears, but she resolutely winked them back, whispering the python’s words:  “A brave heart and a courteous tongue, manling.”

But she could not stop the frightened thumping in her breast, and of what use was a courteous tongue, when nobody would stop to listen?  She wondered what had happened to make a whole city full of people in such a desperate hurry.

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.