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Updated: May 1, 2025
Joscelyn's new play was a homely, pleasant production with rollicking comedy and heart-moving pathos skilfully commingled. Joscelyn pervaded it all with a convincing simplicity that was really the triumph of art. Cyrus Morgan listened and exulted in her; at every burst of applause his eyes gleamed with pride.
The name of Joscelyn's mother was never mentioned to her; she was never called anything but Josie, which sounded more "Christian-like" than Joscelyn; and all the flowering out of her alien beauty was repressed as far as might be in the plainest and dullest of dresses and the primmest arrangement possible to riotous ripe-brown curls.
A moment before she had been a woman, splendid, unafraid; now she was again the schoolgirl, too confused and shamed to speak. "What are you doing, Josie?" asked her grandfather again, "dressed up in that indecent manner and talking and twisting to yourself?" Joscelyn's face, that had grown pale, flamed scarlet again. She lifted her head proudly.
And then Joscelyn told her all the story of her struggles and triumphs since they had parted. When the moonlight began to creep in through the low window, Aunty Nan put out her hand and touched Joscelyn's bowed head. "Little Joscelyn," she whispered, "if it ain't asking too much, I want you to sing just one other piece.
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