ship thrust themselves upon her in the shape of panicky doubts; and however resolutely she turned her thoughts to other matters, just so resolutely visions of a wistful-eyed boy in a poverty-stricken room loomed always before her.
Then, too, there was Pollyanna. Clearly Pollyanna was not herself at all. In a most unPollyanna-like spirit she moped about the house, finding apparently no interest anywhere.
"Oh, no, I'm not sick," she would answer, when remonstrated with, and questioned.
"But what is the trouble?"
"Why, nothing. It—it's only that I was thinking of Jamie, you know,—how he hasn't got all these beautiful things—carpets, and pictures, and curtains."
It was the same with her food. Pollyanna was actually losing her appetite; but here again she disclaimed sickness.
"Oh, no," she would sigh mournfully. "It's just that I don't seem hungry. Some way, just as soon as I begin to eat, I think of Jamie, and how he doesn't have only old doughnuts and dry rolls; and then I—I don't want anything."
Mrs. Carew, spurred by a feeling that she herself only dimly understood, and recklessly determined to bring about some change in Pollyanna at all costs, ordered a huge tree, two dozen wreaths, and quantities of holly and Christmas baubles. For the first time in many years the house was aflame and aglitter with scarlet and tinsel. There was even to be a Christ-
