“She’s an ugly little lady,” thought Vaughan to herself.

Vaughan was wrong.  The child had a piquant face, full of charm, and her head and chin had the poise of a princess.  She had fair straight hair, almond-shaped hazel eyes under pencilled brows, and a nose “tip-tilted like a flower.”  Peggy Callahan, whose acquaintance you will make later, said she guessed it was because Anne’s nose was so cute and darling that her eyebrows and her eyes and her mouth all pointed at it.  But now the little face was dismal and splotched with tears, the tawny hair was tousled, and the white frock and white hair-ribbons were crumpled.

“Were you knocking at my door?” Anne asked in a voice made steady with difficulty.

“Yes, miss.  I thought you might be sick.  We heard you crying.”

“Oh!” The pale face reddened.  “I didn’t know any one could hear.  The walls of these rooms aren’t very thick, are they?”

“No, miss.”  In spite of herself, Vaughan smiled at the quaint dignity of the child.  “Don’t you want me to change your frock?  Dear me!  I ought not to have forgot you last night!  And breakfast?  You haven’t had breakfast, have you?”

“No.  Are you the—­the—­” Anne drew her brows together, in an earnest search for a forgotten word.

“I’m the stewardess, miss.”

“Oh, yes!—­the stewardess.  Uncle said you’d take care of me.  Where is he?  I want Uncle Carey.”

“Have you seen him this morning, miss?” asked Vaughan.

“No.  Not since a long time ago.  Yesterday just before the boat sailed.  When Roger was handing him a piece of yellow paper.  I waited on deck for him hours and hours.  Where is he now?”

“In his stateroom, maybe—­or the smoking-room—­or on deck.  Maybe he’s waiting this minute for you to go to breakfast.  We’ll have you ready in a jiffy.”

Anne’s face brightened.  “I can bathe myself—­almost.  You may scrub the corners of my ears, if you please.  And I can’t quite part my hair straight.  Will you find Uncle Carey? and see if he is ready for me?”

“Oh, yes, miss.  If you’ll tell me his name.”

“Uncle Carey?  He’s Mr. Mayo.  Mr. Carey Mayo of New York.”

“Yes, miss.  I’ll find him.  Just you wait a minute.  I forget your name, miss.”

“Anne.  Anne Lewis.”

The good-natured stewardess bustled about in a vain effort to find Mr. Carey Mayo.  He was not in his stateroom, nor in the saloon, nor in the smoking-room, nor on deck.  In her perplexity, she addressed the captain whom she met at the dining-room door.

“Beg pardon, sir; I’m looking for a Mr. Mayo, sir, and I can’t find him anywheres.”

“Well?” Captain Wards was gnawing the ends of his mustache.

“It’s for his niece, sir, a little girl.  She ain’t seen him since yesterday, sir.  Been crying till she’s ’most sick.”