"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.
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