POLLYANNA
only know what she had done for us, that it would help, you know, in her own case, about the game, because she could be glad—that is, a little glad—" Milly stopped helplessly, and seemed to be waiting for Miss Polly to speak.
Miss Polly had sat politely listening, but with a puzzled questioning in her eyes. Only about half of what had been said, had she understood. She was thinking now that she always had known that Milly Snow was "queer," but she had not supposed she was crazy. In no other way, however, could she account for this incoherent, illogical, unmeaning rush of words. When the pause came she filled it with a quiet:
"I don't think I quite understand, Milly. Just what it is that you want me to tell my niece?"
"Yes, that's it; I want you to tell her," answered the girl, feverishly. "Make her see what she's done for us. Of course she's seen some things, because she's been there, and she's known mother is different; but I want her to know how different she is—and me, too. I'm different. I've been trying to play it—the game—a little."
Miss Polly frowned. She would have asked what Milly meant by this "game," but there was no opportunity. Milly was rushing on again with nervous volubility.
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