made a different man of him. And listen, dear. It's not only this town, but other places. I had a letter yesterday from my cousin in Massachusetts, and she told me all about Mrs. Tom Payson that used to live here. Do you remember them? They lived on the way up Pendleton Hill."
"Yes, oh, yes, I remember them," cried Pollyanna.
"Well, they left here that winter you were in the Sanatorium and went to Massachusetts where my sister lives. She knows them well. She says Mrs. Payson told her all about you, and how your glad game actually saved them from a divorce. And now not only do they play it themselves, but they've got quite a lot of others playing it down there, and they're getting still others. So you see, dear, there's no telling where that glad game of yours is going to stop. I wanted you to know. I thought it might help—even you to play the game sometimes; for don't think I don't understand, dearie, that it is hard for you to play your own game—sometimes."
Pollyanna rose to her feet. She smiled, but her eyes glistened with tears, as she held out her hand in good-by.
"Thank you, Mrs. Snow," she said unsteadily. "It is hard—sometimes; and maybe I did need a little help about my own game. But, anyhow, now—" her eyes flashed with their old merriment—"if any time I think I can't play the game myself I can remember that I can still always be glad there are some folks playing it!"
Pollyanna walked home a little soberly that after-
