POLLYANNA
them before his people in the sacred hush of the church.
His people!—they were his people. Could he do it? Dare he do it? Dare he not do it? It was a fearful denunciation, even without the words that would follow—his own words. He had prayed and prayed. He had pleaded earnestly for help, for guidance. He longed—oh, how earnestly he longed!—to take now, in this crisis, the right step. But was this—the right step?
Slowly the minister folded the papers and thrust them back into his pocket. Then, with a sigh that was almost a moan, he flung himself down at the foot of a tree, and covered his face with his hands.
It was there that Pollyanna, on her way home from the Pendleton house, found him. With a little cry she ran forward.
"Oh, oh, Mr. Ford! You—you haven't broken your leg or—or anything, have you?" she gasped.
The minister dropped his hands, and looked up quickly. He tried to smile.
"No, dear—no, indeed! I'm just—resting."
"Oh," sighed Pollyanna, falling back a little. "That's all right, then. You see, Mr. Pendleton had broken his leg when I found him—but he was lying down, though. And you are sitting up."
"Yes, I am sitting up; and I haven't broken anything—that doctors can mend."
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