Molly’s Story

Molly Foley illustration


Exhausted, you knock on Mr. Flynn’s door. “Can I help you, young lady?” he asks.

“You’re wanting an apprentice?”

“So I am. Have you got a brother, then?”

“What?” Suddenly, your throat feels dry. “No, I’m applying.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. I was needing a boy, you see, and …”

“Never mind,” you mumble. Head down, you start to walk away.

Once again, Ireland is beyond your reach. Maybe there is something to this rebellion fuss you keep hearing about. In the United States, they’ve got the Fenian Sisterhood, for Irishwomen. Maybe you should join up — you just miss home so much.

“Wait!” A young man catches up to you. “I’m sorry, only I heard you talking to my father, and —”


“I just wondered, if you’d like to go for a walk, sometime.” He blushes as red as his hair. “My name’s John Flynn.”

Hm. Nice smile. Lovely eyes. Maybe Canada isn’t as bad as all that.

Do you want to see about joining the fight for an independent Ireland, or do you want to go walking with John?