JOHN PENDLETON
A low cry came from the man. There was a brief silence; then, huskily, he asked:
"And Pollyanna—how does she—take it?"
"She doesn't understand—at all—how things really are. And I can't tell her."
"But she must know—something!"
Miss Polly lifted her hand to the collar at her throat in the gesture that had become so common to her of late.
"Oh, yes. She knows she can't—move; but she thinks her legs are—broken. She says she's glad it's broken legs like yours rather than 'lifelong-invalids' like Mrs. Snow's; because broken legs get well, and the other—doesn't. She talks like that all the time, until it—it seems as if I should—die!"
Through the blur of tears in his own eyes, the man saw the drawn face opposite, twisted with emotion. Involuntarily his thoughts went back to what Pollyanna had said when he had made his final plea for her presence: "Oh, I couldn't leave Aunt Polly—now!"
It was this thought that made him ask very gently, as soon as he could control his voice:
"I wonder if you know, Miss Harrington, how hard I tried to get Pollyanna to come and live with me."
"With you!—Pollyanna!"
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