“Ceylon for a year—how gorgeous!” said Jean Weston.
“Yes; I’m going to learn to plant tea,” laughed Helen. “If we have luck we may go on to India: Father has cousins in Bombay. But there will be a wonder-year, at any rate. What are you going to do, Jean? Of course I know you’re not leaving yet.”
“Thank goodness, no!” Jean answered. “We wanted to go to school from the time we were ten, and we didn’t go until we were over fourteen, so it would be too awful to have only a year. We’re to be left to accumulate learning until we’re eighteen, I believe!”
“You won’t be fit to know!” said Gladys Armstrong solemnly.
“That depends on how much we accumulate. Thank goodness Father isn’t a bit keen on exams for us. We’re to learn French thoroughly, so’s we can talk it if we ever get to France, and we’re to have a good sound education without any frills, and all the domestic science Smithy can pack into us. That’s Father’s idea: Mother stuck out for a few extras. And they both want us to play all the games we can, barring football!”
“They sound extremely satisfactory parents,” said Grace, laughing.
“You ask Helen—she knows them!” returned Jo defiantly.
“Why, they’re darlings: everybody knows that!” said Helen. “Mr. Weston gave us—the twinses and Nita and me—a most gorgeous time when he came to Town to sell his wool. Didn’t he, Nita?”
“Rather!” responded that damsel. “I wish he had wool to sell once a month!”
“I’m afraid he won’t have much next year,” Jean said. “The drought is pretty bad up our way; Mother’s letters seem a bit worrified.”