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?" "It is, indeed," smiled Burt. "There, Nan, that low white cottage at the very end, the last before you come to open fields. That's Aunt Susan's." They quickened their pace; Anne was conscious of an intense wish that Aunt Susan might be home. She wanted to see the inside of the white house, bungalow, it might almost be called, if one did not associate bungalows with stucco or stained shingles. This cottage was of white wood, with the regulation green blinds. There was an outside chimney of red bricks; a pathway of red bricks in the old herringbone pattern led up to the front door, with its shining brass knocker. A row of white foxgloves stood sentinel before the front of the house, on each side the entrance, their pointed spires coming well above the window-sills; before them the dark foliage of perennial lupins, tossing up a white spray of flowers, and then it seemed as if every old-fashioned flower of white, or with a white variety, ran riot down to a border of sweet alyssum. Above all the fragrance came the unmistakable sweetness of mignonette. "Oh, Burt!" called Anne, "I do hope she's home. What a woman she must be, I can guess some things about her, just from the outside of her house. I hope she'll show me the inside of it." Burt shook his head. "She'd have seen us before this and been out here," he suggested. "Come 'round to the back."