She flung
her door open, expecting to see her uncle or at least the stewardess.
Instead, she stood face to face with a strange boy, a jolly,
freckle-faced youngster of about thirteen.
"Good-morning," he said cheerily. Then he beat a tattoo on the opposite
door.
"Mother! Aunt Sarah! Aunt Sarah! Mother!" he called. "Must I wait and go
to breakfast with you? I am starving. Aren't you ready? Please!"
Anne was still standing embarrassed in her doorway when the opposite
door opened and facing her stood the bird-like lady whom she had seen
the afternoon before. Miss Drayton kissed her nephew good-morning,
straightened his necktie, and smoothed down a rebellious lock of curly
dark hair. She smiled at the sober little girl across the passage as she
announced to the impatient youngster that she was quite ready for
breakfast and would go with him as soon as he had bade his mamma
good-morning. As he disappeared in the stateroom, the stewardess came
back, looking worried.
"I--I--can't find your uncle, miss," she said.
Anne's eyes filled with tears. She swallowed a sob and steadied her
voice to say: "He--must have forgotten--'bout me. I--don't have
breakfast with him 'cept Sundays.
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