POLLYANNA
"Humph!" grunted Old Tom; and fell to work again.
In the ceremonious "parlor" of the Harrington homestead, Mr. John Pendleton did not have to wait long before a swift step warned him of Miss Polly's coming. As he attempted to rise, she made a gesture of remonstrance. She did not offer her hand, however, and her face was coldly reserved.
"I called to ask for—Pollyanna," he began at once, a little brusquely.
"Thank you. She is about the same," said Miss Polly.
"And that is—won't you tell me how she is?" His voice was not quite steady this time.
A quick spasm of pain crossed the woman's face.
"I can't. I wish I could!"
"You mean—you don't know?"
"Yes."
"But—the doctor?"
"Dr. Warren himself seems—at sea. He is in correspondence now with a New York specialist. They have arranged for a consultation—at once."
"But—but what were her injuries that you do know?"
"A slight cut on the head, one or two bruises, and—and an injury to the spine which has seemed to cause—paralysis from the hips down."
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