“If we could sail to it in the moonshine boat Paul wrote of in his old composition—­you remember?—­how nice it would be,” said Anne, rousing from her reverie.  “Do you think we could find all our yesterdays there, Diana—­all our old springs and blossoms?  The beds of flowers that Paul saw there are the roses that have bloomed for us in the past?”

“Don’t!” said Diana.  “You make me feel as if we were old women with everything in life behind us.”

“I think I’ve almost felt as if we were since I heard about poor Ruby,” said Anne.  “If it is true that she is dying any other sad thing might be true, too.”

“You don’t mind calling in at Elisha Wright’s for a moment, do you?” asked Diana.  “Mother asked me to leave this little dish of jelly for Aunt Atossa.”

“Who is Aunt Atossa?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?  She’s Mrs. Samson Coates of Spencervale—­Mrs. Elisha Wright’s aunt.  She’s father’s aunt, too.  Her husband died last winter and she was left very poor and lonely, so the Wrights took her to live with them.  Mother thought we ought to take her, but father put his foot down.  Live with Aunt Atossa he would not.”

“Is she so terrible?” asked Anne absently.

“You’ll probably see what she’s like before we can get away,” said Diana significantly.  “Father says she has a face like a hatchet—­it cuts the air.  But her tongue is sharper still.”

Late as it was Aunt Atossa was cutting potato sets in the Wright kitchen.  She wore a faded old wrapper, and her gray hair was decidedly untidy.  Aunt Atossa did not like being “caught in a kilter,” so she went out of her way to be disagreeable.

“Oh, so you’re Anne Shirley?” she said, when Diana introduced Anne.  “I’ve heard of you.”  Her tone implied that she had heard nothing good.  “Mrs. Andrews was telling me you were home.  She said you had improved a good deal.”

There was no doubt Aunt Atossa thought there was plenty of room for further improvement.  She ceased not from cutting sets with much energy.

“Is it any use to ask you to sit down?” she inquired sarcastically.  “Of course, there’s nothing very entertaining here for you.  The rest are all away.”

“Mother sent you this little pot of rhubarb jelly,” said Diana pleasantly.  “She made it today and thought you might like some.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Aunt Atossa sourly.  “I never fancy your mother’s jelly—­she always makes it too sweet.  However, I’ll try to worry some down.  My appetite’s been dreadful poor this spring.  I’m far from well,” continued Aunt Atossa solemnly, “but still I keep a-doing.  People who can’t work aren’t wanted here.  If it isn’t too much trouble will you be condescending enough to set the jelly in the pantry?  I’m in a hurry to get these spuds done tonight.  I suppose you two ladies never do anything like this.  You’d be afraid of spoiling your hands.”

“I used to cut potato sets before we rented the farm,” smiled Anne.