As I entered Stateroom D, I found Jane Sterling already there. But as the physical reality was so different from the lady of my imagination, I sat down on the edge of my white-spread berth and stared at her.
Sitting on the edge of the opposite berth, and staring back at me, was a small child with big eyes. She wore a stiff little frock of white piqué, and her brown hair was “bobbed” and tied up with an enormous white bow. Her brown eyes had a solemn gaze, and her little hands were clasped in her lap.
It was quite needless to ask her name, for Jane Sterling was plainly and unmistakably written all over her, and I marvelled that the name hadn’t told me at once what she looked like.
“How old are you, Jane?” I asked.
“Seven,” she replied, with a little sigh, as of the weight of years.
Her voice satisfied me. She was one of those unusual children, whom some speak of as “queer,” and others call “old-fashioned.”
But they are neither. They are distinctly a modern variety, and their unusualness lies in the fact that they have a sense of humor.
“And is this your first trip abroad?” I went on.
“No, my seventh,” said Jane, with a delicious little matter-of-fact air.
“Indeed! Well, this is the first time I have crossed, so I trust you will take pity on my ignorance, and instruct me as to what I should do.”