"In the 'Desert of Sarah,' Nancy used to call it," laughed Pollyanna one night, as she joined the rest in begging for a story.
Better than all this, however, in Pollyanna's opinion, were the times when John Pendleton, with her alone, talked of her mother as he used to know her and love her, in the days long gone. That he did so talk with her was a joy to Pollyanna, but a great surprise, too; for, never in the past, had John Pendleton talked so freely of the girl whom he had so loved—hopelessly. Perhaps John Pendleton himself felt some of the surprise, for once he said to Pollyanna, musingly:
"I wonder why I'm talking to you like this."
"Oh, but I love to have you," breathed Pollyanna.
"Yes, I know—but I wouldn't think I would do it. It must be, though, that it's because you are so like her, as I knew her. You are very like your mother, my dear."
"Why, I thought my mother was beautiful!" cried Pollyanna, in unconcealed amazement.
John Pendleton smiled quizzically.
"She was, my dear."
Pollyanna looked still more amazed.
"Then I don't see how I can be like her!"
The man laughed outright.
"Pollyanna, if some girls had said that, I—well, never mind what I'd say. You little witch!—you poor, homely little Pollyanna!"
Pollyanna flashed a genuinely distressed reproof straight into the man's merry eyes.
"Please, Mr. Pendleton, don't look like that, and
