loane, and no skulking. March right up now. Think of Aunty Nan
and don't let style down you."

A pert-looking maid answered Jordan's ring, and stared at him when he
asked for Miss Burnett.

"I don't think you can see her," she said shortly, scanning his country
cut of hair and clothes rather superciliously. "What is your business
with her?"

The maid's scorn roused Jordan's "dander," as he would have expressed
it.

"I'll tell her that when I see her," he retorted coolly. "Just you tell
her that I've a message for her from Aunty Nan Morrison of Gull Point
Farm, Avonlea. If she hain't forgot, that'll fetch her. You might as
well hurry up, if you please, I've not overly too much time."

The pert maid decided to be civil at least, and invited Jordan to enter.
But she left him standing in the hall while she went in search of Miss
Burnett. Jordan gazed about him in amazement. He had never been in any
place like this before. The hall was wonderful enough, and through the
open doors on either hand stretched vistas of lovely rooms that, to
Jordan's eyes, looked like those of a palace.

"Gee whiz! How do they ever move around without knocking things over?"

Then Joscelyn Burnett came, and Jordan forgot everything else. This
tall, beautiful woman, in her silken draperies, with a face like nothing
Jordan had ever seen, or even dreamed about,--could this be Aunty Nan's
little Joscelyn? Jordan's round, freckled countenance grew crimson. He
felt horribly tonguetied and embarrassed. What could he say to her? How
could he say it?

Joscelyn Burnett looked at him with her large, dark eyes,--the eyes of a
woman who had suffered much, and learned much, and won through struggle
to victory.

"You have come from Aunty Nan?" she said. "Oh, I am so glad to hear from
her. Is she well? Come in here and tell me all about her."

She turned toward one of those fairy-like rooms, but Jordan interrupted
her desperately.

"Oh, not in there, ma'am. I'd never get it out. Just let me blunder
through it out here someways. Yes'm, Aunty Nan, she ain't very well.
She's--she's dying, I guess. And she's longing for you night and day.
Seems as if she couldn't die in peace without seeing you. She wanted
to get to Kensington to hear you sing, but that old cat of a Mrs.
William--begging you pardon, ma'am--wouldn't let her come. She's always
talking of you. If you can come out to Gull Point Farm and see her, I'll
be most awful obliged to you, ma'am."