And so at half-past three,--because, to tell the truth, it was easier to be a little early than to ask the hotel clerk about the tide,--Betty, dressed in her prettiest white suit and her hat with the pink roses, came out of the hotel and started down the road to the ferry landing. It was a hot day and the road was dusty, and she hurried as fast as possible to get into the shelter of the little park just back of the landing. But before she reached it she heard a shout from the bottom of the landing-steps, and the next minute she realized that somebody was calling her,--a stout gentleman, who, having detached himself from the little crowd that had gathered there, was laboriously climbing the steps to meet her, still calling and beckoning frantically as he came. But instead of using her name he was shouting, “Miss B. A.! Miss B. A.!” And this, before he was near enough to be recognized, gave Betty the clue to his identity. It was Jasper J. Morton, of course.