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.
“I do it yet,” laughed Diana. “I cut sets three days last week. Of course,” she added teasingly, “I did my hands up in lemon juice and kid gloves every night after it.”
Aunt Atossa sniffed.
“I suppose you got that notion out of some of those silly magazines you read so many of. I wonder your mother allows you. But she always spoiled you. We all thought when George married her she wouldn’t be a suitable wife for him.”
Aunt Atossa sighed heavily, as if all forebodings upon the occasion of George Barry’s marriage had been amply and darkly fulfilled.
“Going, are you?” she inquired, as the girls rose. “Well, I suppose you can’t find much amusement talking to an old woman like me. It’s such a pity the boys ain’t home.”
“We want to run in and see Ruby Gillis a little while,” explained Diana.
“Oh, anything does for an excuse, of course,” said Aunt Atossa, amiably. “Just whip in and whip out before you have time to say how-do decently. It’s college airs, I s’pose. You’d be wiser to keep away from Ruby Gillis. The doctors say consumption’s catching. I always knew Ruby’d get something, gadding off to Boston last fall for a visit. People who ain’t content to stay home always catch something.”
“People who don’t go visiting catch things, too. Sometimes they even die,” said Diana solemnly.
“Then they don’t have themselves to blame for it,” retorted Aunt Atossa triumphantly. “I hear you are to be married in June, Diana.”
“There is no truth in that report,” said Diana, blushing.
“Well, don’t put it off too long,” said Aunt Atossa significantly. “You’ll fade soon — you’re all complexion and hair. And the Wrights are terrible fickle. You ought to wear a hat, MISS SHIRLEY. Your nose is freckling scandalous. My, but you ARE redheaded! Well, I s’pose we’re all as the Lord made us! Give Marilla Cuthbert my respects. She’s never been to see me since I come to Avonlea, but I s’pose I oughtn’t to complain. The Cuthberts always did think themselves a cut higher than any one else round here.”
“Oh, isn’t she dreadful?” gasped Diana, as they escaped down the lane.
“She’s worse than Miss Eliza Andrews,” said Anne. “But then think of living all your life with a name like Atossa! Wouldn’t it sour almost any one? She should have tried to imagine her name was Cordelia. It might have helped her a great deal. It certainly helped me in the days when I didn’t like ANNE.”
“Josie Pye will be just like her when she grows up,” said Diana. “Josie’s mother and Aunt Atossa are cousins, you know. Oh, dear, I’m glad that’s over. She’s so malicious — she seems to put a bad flavor in everything. Father tells such a funny story about her. One time they had a minister in Spencervale who was a very good, spiritual man but very deaf. He couldn’t hear any ordinary conversation at all. Well, they used to have a prayer meeting on Sunday evenings, and all the church members present would get up and pray in turn, or say a few words on some Bible verse. But one evening Aunt Atossa bounced up. She didn’t either pray or preach. Instead, she lit into everybody else in the church and gave them a fearful raking down, calling them right out by name and telling them how they all had behaved, and casting up all the quarrels and scandals of the past ten years. Finally she wound up by saying that she was disgusted with Spencervale church and she never meant to darken its door again, and she hoped a fearful judgment would come upon it. Then she sat down out of breath, and the minister, who hadn’t heard a word she said, immediately remarked, in a very devout voice, ‘amen! The Lord grant our dear sister’s prayer!’ You ought to hear father tell the story.”
“Speaking of stories, Diana,” remarked Anne, in a significant, confidential tone, “do you know that lately I have been wondering if I could write a short story — a story that would be good enough to be published?”
“Why, of course you could,” said Diana, after she had grasped the amazing suggestion. “You used to write perfectly thrilling stories years ago in our old Story Club.”
“Well, I hardly meant one of that kind of stories,” smiled Anne. “I’ve been thinking about it a little of late, but I’m almost afraid to try, for, if I should fail, it would be too humiliating.”
“I heard Priscilla say once that all Mrs. Morgan’s first stories were rejected. But I’m sure yours wouldn’t be, Anne, for it’s likely editors have more sense nowadays.”
“Margaret Burton, one of the Junior girls at Redmond, wrote a story last winter and it was published in the Canadian Woman. I really do think I could write one at least as good.”
“And will you have it published in the Canadian Woman?”
“I might try one of the bigger magazines first. It all depends on what kind of a story I write.”
“What is it to be about?”
“I
