FullReads

“Dear me, Aunty Nan, this is really childish,” said Mrs. William, whisking her bowlful of berries into the pantry. “You must let other folks be the judge of what is best for you now. You aren’t strong enough to drive to Kensington, and, even if you were, you know well enough that William couldn’t go to Kensington to-morrow night. He has got to attend that political meeting at Newbridge. They can’t do without him.”

“Jordan could take me to Kensington,” pleaded Aunty Nan, with very unusual persistence.

“Nonsense! You couldn’t go to Kensington with the hired man. Now, Aunty Nan, do be reasonable. Aren’t William and I kind to you? Don’t we do everything for your comfort?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” admitted Aunty Nan deprecatingly.

“Well, then, you ought to be guided by our opinion. And you must just give up thinking about the Kensington concert, Aunty, and not worry yourself and me about it any more. I am going down to the shore field now to call William to tea. Just keep an eye on the baby in chance he wakes up, and see that the teapot doesn’t boil over.”

Mrs. William whisked out of the kitchen, pretending not to see the tears that were falling over Aunty Nan’s withered pink cheeks. Aunty Nan was really getting very childish, Mrs. William reflected, as she marched down to the shore field. Why, she cried now about every little thing! And such a notion–to want to go to the Old Timers’ concert at Kensington and be so set on it! Really, it was hard to put up with her whims. Mrs. William sighed virtuously.

As for Aunty Nan, she sat alone in the kitchen, and cried bitterly, as only lonely old age can cry. It seemed to her that she could not bear it, that she MUST go to Kensington. But she knew that it was not to be, since Mrs. William had decided otherwise. Mrs. William’s word was law at Gull Point Farm.

“What’s the matter with my old Aunty Nan?” cried a hearty young voice from the doorway. Jordan Sloane stood there, his round, freckled face looking as anxious and sympathetic as it was possible for such a very round, very freckled face to look. Jordan was the Morrisons’ hired boy that summer, and he worshipped Aunty Nan.

“Oh, Jordan,” sobbed Aunty Nan, who was not above telling her troubles to the hired help, although Mrs. William thought she ought to be, “I can’t go to Kensington to-morrow night to hear little Joscelyn sing at the Old Timers’ concert. Maria says I can’t.”

“That’s too bad,” said Jordan. “Old cat,” he muttered after the retreating and serenely unconscious Mrs. William. Then he shambled in and sat down on the sofa beside Aunty Nan.

“There, there, don’t cry,” he said, patting her thin little shoulder with his big, sunburned paw. “You’ll make yourself sick if you go on crying, and we can’t get along without you at Gull Point Farm.”

Aunty Nan smiled wanly.

“I’m afraid you’ll soon have to get on without me, Jordan. I’m not going to be here very long now. No, I’m not, Jordan, I know it. Something tells me so very plainly. But I would be willing to go–glad to go, for I’m very tired, Jordan–if I could only have heard little Joscelyn sing once more.”

“Why are you so set on hearing her?” asked Jordan. “She ain’t no kin to you, is she?”

“No, but dearer to me–dearer to me than many of my own. Maria thinks that is silly, but you wouldn’t if you’d known her, Jordan. Even Maria herself wouldn’t, if she had known her. It is fifteen years since she came here one summer to board. She was a child of thirteen then, and hadn’t any relations except an old uncle who sent her to school in winter and boarded her out in summer, and didn’t care a rap about her. The child was just starving for love, Jordan, and she got it here. William and his brothers were just children then, and they hadn’t any sister. We all just worshipped her. She was so sweet, Jordan. And pretty, oh my! like a little girl in a picture, with great long curls, all black and purply and fine as spun silk, and big dark eyes, and such pink cheeks–real wild rose cheeks. And sing! My land! But couldn’t she sing! Always singing, every hour of the day that voice was ringing round the old place. I used to hold my breath to hear it. She always said that she meant to be a famous singer some day, and I never doubted it a mite. It was born in her. Sunday evening she used to sing hymns for us. Oh, Jordan, it makes my old heart young again to remember it. A sweet child she was, my little Joscelyn! She used to write me for three or four years after she went away, but I haven’t heard a word from her for long and long. I daresay she has forgotten me, as Maria says. ‘Twouldn’t be any wonder. But I haven’t forgotten her, and oh, I want to see and hear her terrible much. She is to sing at the Old Timers’ concert to-morrow night at Kensington. The folks who are getting the concert up are friends of hers, or, of course, she’d never have come to a little country village. Only sixteen miles away–and I can’t go.”