CHAPTER I

MR. BOLLAND’S PROPOSAL

“Judy! Judy! Where are you? Your godfather is come, and mother wants you
indoors at once! Are you here, Judy? Do hurry up!” And Mollie Carey
nearly danced in her frantic excitement.

“There’s no need to hurry, that I can see,” replied a voice from the
loft beneath which she was standing. “He won’t run away for a while
yet.”

As these last words were spoken, a pair of long brown legs appeared
through the opening, followed by a very dilapidated blue cotton frock
and an untidy black head. A moment later, and Judy had slid down the
ladder, and was standing beside her sister.

A greater contrast than the two could hardly have been imagined. Mollie
was a small, slender girl of sixteen, with golden hair curling round a
face as sweet and fresh as a pink rosebud. With such hair and colouring
one might have expected blue eyes. But the long black lashes curled up
to show dark grey ones—the true Irish eyes, “put in with a smutty
finger.” She had dimples in her cheeks, and one in her chin. Her dress,
like Judy’s, was of faded blue cotton; but it was daintily put on. Her
curls were well brushed, and tied back with a much-ironed piece of black
ribbon; and though she wore the thick woollen stockings and stoutly-made
shoes of the prairie child, the whole effect was charming and trim.

Judy, on the other hand, looked rather as though she had been dragged
through a hedge backwards. She was a thin slip of a girl, all arms and
legs, with a mane of wild elf locks that never looked tidy. She was
burnt a deep brown with the sun, and her frocks were always getting too
short, for Judy had lately taken to growing at a tremendous rate. Yet a
close observer would have noticed that though her face with its tilted
chin was thin, with hollow cheeks, yet the drawing of it was admirable;
the wide mouth had finely-cut lips; and the deep grey eyes, at present
almost too large, were lovely as Mollie’s. There were possibilities in
Judy of loveliness later on, though at present she was as plain as she
well could be.

“How tidy you are, Mollie,” she said as she reached her sister. “It’s a
good thing one of us looks decent! Guess you’ll have to dress for us
both!”

“Flum-diddle!” retorted Mollie. “Come on, and let me fix your hair. Your
shoes and stockings are in our bed-chamber too.”

“Guess I shan’t bother,” replied Judy. “God-papa can just see me as I
am. There’s no reason for dressing up to please him, is there?”

“Judy, you just can’t go and see him like that!”

“Why not? What’s the matter with me?” demanded Judy “I’m clean, amn’t
I?”

“Yes; fairly clean. But oh, Judy, your hair’s all on end, and you’re
barefoot, and the hem of your frock’s coming down! Do come and put on
your pink one,” coaxed Mollie. “It’s all fresh—I ironed it yesterday.”

Judy heaved a deep sigh. “I s’pose I’ll have to,” she said; “but I do
hate shoes and stockings, Moll.”

“Poor old Judy, I guess you do. Here, slip in quietly so that they don’t
hear us.”

The two girls mounted the carpetless wooden stairs, and entered a long,
narrow room which, while it was as clean as hands and soap and water
could make it, had very few of the daintinesses to be seen in an English
girl’s bedroom. A big black iron bedstead nearly filled up one end of
the room. At the other, stood a chest of drawers with a mirror hanging
over it, and an enamelled bowl and jug standing on it. A rickety table
by the window held a jam jar in which some one had placed a handful of
prairie grasses. The same hand had neatly hemmed the pieces of gaily
coloured chintz which covered the table and the top of the drawers, and
hung at the long, narrow window. There were a couple of broken-down
wicker chairs; and facing the bedstead was a set of shelves, literally
crammed with books of all kinds and in all conditions. One picture, a
faded copy of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s “Cherub Choir,” hung over the bed.

When the sisters entered the room, Mollie made a dive for the bottom
drawer, from which she took a much-washed pink gingham frock, while Judy
wriggled out of the forlorn blue garment and washed her hands and face.

“Let me brush your hair straight,” pleaded the elder girl; “and I guess
I’ve got a ribbon to fix it. I’ll just braid it to your
shoulders—so—and then tie it. There, that’s a mite better. Now the
frock, Judy. Here are your shoes and stockings, and I’ll lend you my
black belt. That’s a lot nicer, isn’t it, little old Ju?”

Judy cast an indifferent glance at her reflection in the mirror. “Oh,
it’s all right,” she said. “I do hate shoes and stockings, Moll. Let’s
hope they don’t keep us long, and then I can change again. I’ve got a
glorious book in the loft—Sadie Wilson loaned to me _The Last Days of
Pompeii_—and I want to get on with it. You’d love it, Moll. You could
get heaps of pictures from it.”

“Mollie! Judy!” a voice called up the stairs. “Aren’t you coming down at
all?”

“There’s mother calling,” said Mollie. “Come on, Judy.”

Together they came down the stairs and into the big living-room, where
Mrs. Carey, an older and faded edition of lovely Mollie, sat talking to
a tall, grey man who rose as the girls came in, eyeing them keenly.

“This is Judy,” said her mother as the girl came over to her. “You
haven’t seen her since she was three, I think. Judy, this is your
godfather.”

Judy lifted big scared eyes to her godfather’s face as she reluctantly
took the slender hand he held out to her.

“How do you do, Judith?” he said in clear, beautifully-modulated tones.
“You have grown very much since I saw you last. How old are you, child?”

“I am fourteen,” replied Judy. “I was fourteen three weeks ago.”

“Fourteen? Dear me!” he said. “Quite a big girl! I had forgotten you
were as old! Well, and how do you spend your days?”

“It’s vacation,” said Judy shyly, as she twisted her fingers together.
“I ride on Puck, my pony, and help at milking time, and read.”

“So you like reading? What books do you like?”

“Judy likes most anything with a tale to it,” put in Mollie, seeing that
her sister was shy. “She reads more than any of us—except Denis.”

“Denis? That is the boy at Oxford, is it not?” asked Mr. Bolland of Mrs.
Carey.

“Yes,” she said. “He won the James Murchison Scholarship, and went over
last Fall. His first year is nearly ended now. I’m afraid he and Judy
are the only ones who care for study,” she went on. “Mollie is happiest
doing housework, and Terry and Honey hate anything to do with books.”

“I see,” the guest nodded. “Well, god-daughter, I have brought you a
gift of some books. I didn’t know what you would like, so I just told
the girl in the store to pick me half a dozen good ones for a
schoolgirl. They’re in my grip outside at this moment.”

Half a dozen new books! The slow colour flooded Judy’s face, and her
eyes shone like stars.

“O-o-oh!” she breathed, clasping her hands tightly together. “O-o-oh!
godpapa! How kind of you!”

Mr. Bolland looked pleased at her evident delight. “Let’s get ’em,” he
said, rising. “I guess you’ll want to begin on ’em straight away, don’t
you? I brought a few things for the others,” he went on, turning to Mrs.
Carey. “There’s a doll for the little girl, and some paints for the boy,
and a work-basket for Mollie. I got my sister who lives with me in
Toronto to pick those for me.”

“It is very good of you,” replied Mrs. Carey. “They will be delighted.”

By this time he had brought his bag into the room, and was opening it
and producing the precious parcels. A thin, flat one and a long, narrow
one were put on one side; they were the paint-box and the doll. Then
came a square one for Mollie, and after that, one which held the
precious books. Judy could scarcely find words with which to thank him
as she took them. In the Carey household there were never any spare
pennies for books. The farm barely made a living for them all, and they
had to do without any luxuries. What books they did own had been brought
from England thirteen years before, when Mr. and Mrs. Carey had come to
the golden land of Canada with their three children, Denis, Mollie, and
Judy, then a baby of eleven months old, hoping to fare better than they
had fared in old Ireland. But the War had come, and Mr. Carey had gone
with other Canadians to fight for the Motherland; and then things hadn’t
gone very well since the War, and so they all went without everything
but necessities. It had been a great joy to the family when Denis had
won his scholarship, but it had meant plainer living than ever for the
others to make it possible for him to use it. Mollie and the little ones
had not troubled much, but to book-loving Judy it had been positive
anguish to have only the old friends to fall back on. She could scarcely
find words to thank her godfather as she opened that delightful parcel.

There were two school tales, _Winona of the Campfire_, _Anne of Green
Gables_, _Rob Roy_, and _Treasure Island_. All of them were quite fresh
to her, and in her rapture she caught them up in her arms and hugged
them ecstatically, scarcely giving a glance to Mollie’s delightful
little work-basket with its dainty fittings.

Mr. Bolland watched their joy, well pleased. Then he turned to Mrs.
Carey. “Can’t we leave them now, and go somewhere else to discuss what I
wrote you about in my last letter?” he suggested. “Can’t we go and find
Mr. Carey?”

“Why, certainly,” replied his hostess. “He will be in the stockyard, I
guess. Shall we go?”

For reply he held open the door for her, and they passed out, leaving
the two girls alone. There was silence in the room after they had left,
for Judy was fathoms deep in _Rob Roy_, and Mollie was fingering the
little scissors, thimble, bodkin, tape-measure, and other dainty
appointments of her new treasure. Presently, however, she raised her
head.

“Judy,” she said; but no answer came. Judy was lost to the world.

Mollie got up from her chair, and came over to her and shook her.

“Well, what do you want?” demanded the younger girl, looking up from her
book impatiently.

“Judy, what do you think Mr. Bolland can want to discuss with father and
mother?” asked Mollie, a little anxiously.

“I don’t know. Something about the ranch, maybe!” and Judy’s dark head
went down over her book again.

Mollie left it at that; but something told her that Mr. Bolland’s
business had little to do with the ranch. It was something that affected
her far more closely than that. The chiming of the clock reminded her
that it was time to get supper ready, since it was nearing sundown.
Without disturbing her sister, she proceeded to lay the table, and
prepare the corned beef and canned peaches, and to make a Johnny-cake.
The sound of voices drawing near just as she had finished everything
warned her that her father and mother and their guest were close at
hand, so she made the strong tea without which the meal would not have
been complete, and then went out to call the two little ones.

They came running to her: Terry, a handsome little lad of seven, and
five-year-old Honor—or Honey, as she was more often called—golden
haired, blue eyed, and rosy cheeked. Molly had just time to send them to
wash their hands and faces and extract a promise from Honey that she
would change her frock, and then the grown-ups were in the living-room,
and her father was demanding supper.

Presently they all sat down. Terry and Honey, shy as young fawns in the
presence of a stranger, scarcely spoke. These prairie children rarely
saw a fresh face. They were thirty-six miles from the nearest railway;
six miles from the little village where stood the school they attended
in the winter months, going there on horseback as long as they could,
and then driving in the sleigh when the snow came. This man from Toronto
was something quite new in their experience. Mr. Bolland, who knew
little about children, scarcely spoke to them after he had presented
them with their parcels; but during the meal Mollie noted that he kept
looking at Judy with deep interest. Her mother seemed rather paler than
usual, she thought, and her father’s jokes were obviously forced.

It was not, however, till after the supper things were cleared away, and
the little ones had gone outside for a last game before bed-time, that
the reason of all this was told them. Then Mr. Carey called Judy to him.

“Judy, come here,” he said.

Judy came at once and stood beside him, scanning his face with bright,
interested eyes.

“Judy,” he said quietly, “how would you like to go to school in
England?”

Go to school in England! Judy’s face flushed and her eyes were dark with
excitement, but she said nothing.

“How would you like it?” repeated her father slowly; “because your
godfather is very anxious to send you, and your mother and I have agreed
to let you go.”