Libby Anne was a pathetic figure in her much-washed derry dress, faded now to the colour of dead grass, and although she was clean and well-kept, her pleading eyes and pale face told of a childhood that had been full of troubles and tears.
Bud stared at her in amazement, and then, as the truth flashed on him, he packed up his books, hot with rage, and left the schoolhouse.
Bill Cavers hung his head in shame, for though he was a shiftless fellow, he loved his little girl in his better moments, and the two cruel marks on her thin little shins called loudly for vengeance; but must live, he told himself miserably.
When Bud left the school Libby Anne was in her seat, sobbing bitterly, but he did not give her a glance as he angrily slammed the door behind him.
Two days after this, Bud was drawing wood from the big bush north of the Assiniboine, and as he passed the Cavers home Libby Anne, with a thin black shawl around her, came running out to speak to him.
"Bud," she called breathlessly, "I had to say it. Dad made me do it, 'cos he's scairt of old man Steadman."
Bud stopped his horses and jumped down. They stood together on the shady side of the load of poles.
"That's all right, kid," Bud said. "Don't you worry. I liked lickin' him."
"But Bud," Libby Anne said wistfully, "you can't ever forget that I lied, can you? You can't ever like me again?"
Bud looked at the little wind-blown figure, such a little troubled, pathetic face, and something tender and manly stirred in his heart.