I am going to Montreal to spend the winter with Alicia . Alicia -- it used to be plain Alice when she lived at Thrush Hill and made her own dresses and trimmed her own hats -- is my half-sister . She is eight years older than I am . We are both orphans , and Aunt Elizabeth brought us up here at Thrush Hill , the most delightful old country place in the world , half smothered in big willows and poplars , every one of which I have climbed in the early tomboy days of gingham pinafores and sun-bonnets . When Alicia was eighteen she married Roger Gresham , a man of forty . The world said that she married him for his money . I dare say she did . Alicia was tired of poverty . I do n't blame her . Very likely I shall do the same thing one of these days , if I get the chance -- for I too am tired of poverty . When Alicia went to Montreal she wanted to take me with her , but I wanted to be outdoors , romping in the hay or running wild in the woods with Jack . Jack Willoughby -- Dr. John H. Willoughby , it reads on his office door -- was the son of our nearest neighbour . We were chums always , and when he went away to college I was heartbroken . The vacations were the only joy of my life then . I do n't know just when I began to notice a change in Jack , but when he came home two years ago , a full-fledged M.D. -- a great , tall , broad-shouldered fellow , with the sweetest moustache , and lovely thick black hair , just made for poking one 's fingers through -- I realized it to the full . Jack was grown up . The dear old days of bird-nesting and nutting and coasting and fishing and general delightful goings-on were over forever . I was sorry at first . I wanted `` Jack . '' `` Dr. Willoughby '' seemed too distinguished and far away .
I suppose he found a change XXXXX me , too .
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