"No, no, Jimmy, you don't understand! She—she—oh, how can I tell you?—she objects to—to you—for—me."
Jimmy's arms relaxed a little. His eyes sobered.
"Oh, well, I suppose I can't blame her for that. I'm no—wonder, of course," he admitted constrainedly. "Still,"—he turned loving eyes upon her—"I'd try to make you—happy, dear."
"Indeed you would! I know you would," protested Pollyanna, tearfully.
"Then why not—give me a chance to try, Pollyanna, even if she—doesn't quite approve, at first. Maybe in time, after we were married, we could win her over."
"Oh, but I couldn't—I couldn't do that," moaned Pollyanna, "after what she's said. I couldn't—without her consent. You see, she's done so much for me, and she's so dependent on me. She isn't well a bit, now, Jimmy. And, really, lately she's been so—so loving, and she's been trying so hard to—to play the game, you know, in spite of all her troubles. And she—she cried, Jimmy, and begged me not to break her heart as—as mother did long ago. And—and Jimmy, I—I just couldn't, after all she's done for me."
There was a moment's pause; then, with a vivid red mounting to her forehead, Pollyanna spoke again, brokenly.
"Jimmy, if you—if you could only tell Aunt Polly something about—about your father, and your people, and—"
