"'The inhabitant shall not say I am sick,' you know.
But if I could only see little Joscelyn first!"
Jordan went out and hurried down-stairs. Billy Morrison was in the stable,
when Jordan stuck his head over the half-door.
"Say, can I have the rest of the day off, sir? I want to
go to Kensington."
"Well, I don't mind," said Billy Morrison amiably.
"May's well get you jaunting done 'fore harvest comes on.
And here, Jord; take this quarter and get some oranges for
Aunty Nan. Needn't mention it to headquarters."
Billy Morrison's face was solemn, but Jordan winked as he
pocketed the money.
"If I've any luck, I'll bring her something that'll do her more good
than the oranges," he muttered, as he hurried off to the pasture.
Jordan had a horse of his own now, a rather bony nag, answering to
the name of Dan. Billy Morrison had agreed to pasture the animal
if Jordan used him in the farm work, an arrangement scoffed at
by Mrs. William in no measured terms.
Jordan hitched Dan into the second best buggy, dressed himself
in his Sunday clothes, and drove off. On the road he re-read
a paragraph he had clipped from the Charlottetown Daily Enterprise
of the previous day.
"Joscelyn Burnett, the famous contralto, is spending a few days
in Kensington on her return from her Maritime concert tour.
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