"Branton!" called the conductor, at least it sounded like Branton, Burt came out of his revery with a start, and Anne followed him down the aisle. They stood a moment upon the platform of the quiet little station and watched the train pull out; as they turned back into what seemed the principal street, Anne craned her neck to look around an inconvenient truck piled with baggage, and made out the sign, Byrnton.
"Oh, Burt, what were we thinking of?" she exclaimed. "This isn't the right place at all! We were to take the road up past a brick church—and there isn't any here—this is Byrnton, and we wanted Branton. What shall we do—why don't you say something?"
"Fudge!" said Burt, soberly, but in his eyes the dancing light he reserved for Anne. "I'll ask the ticket-agent."
He came out of the station, smiling. "This isn't the Branton line at all, but a short branch west of it," he informed her. "We took the wrong train, but he says lots of people make the same mistake, and they are going to change one name or the other, eventually. I am to blame, Nan, for I know this place, Byrnton; I have, or used to have, an Aunt Susan here, somewhere—shall we look her up? We have nearly three hours to kill. It will be afternoon before we can get to Branton—and Aunt Susan will give us nourishment, at least, if she's home."
"Very well," Anne assented. If Burt's business absorbed him like this, she must learn to take it philosophically.
"What a pretty place, Burt! Do see those wonderful elms!"
Byrnton proved to be an old-fashioned village, which had had the good fortune to be remodelled without being modernized. Along the main street many of the houses were square, prim little boxes, with front yards bright with sweet williams, marigolds, and candytuft; these had an iron fence around the garden, and, invariably, shutters at the front door. An occasional house stood flush with the brick or flagged sidewalk; in that case there were snowy curtains at the window, and a glimpse of hollyhocks at the back. The newer houses could be distinguished by the wide, open spaces around them; the late comers had not planned their homes to command the village street, and neighbors, as an older generation had done, but these twentieth century models did not begin until one had left the little railway station well behind.
"What a homely, homey place," said Anne, noting everything with the eye of an artist. "I don't see how you could forget it, if you have an aunt living here."
"That's the question," answered Burt. "Have I an aunt living here? She may be in California; however, in that case, the key will be under the mat."
Anne continued to look about her, with sparkling eyes. "If Aunt Milly had lived in a place like this, I'd be there yet," she told him. "The factories spoiled the place for me, but they made business good for Uncle Andy and the boys, and Aunt Milly likes the bustle, she'd think this was too quiet.—Isn't it queer how people manage to get what they want—in time?"