"But it's my home I'm talking about, child," interrupted the man, impatiently. "Pollyanna, you know the kind of home I once hoped to have, and how those hopes were dashed to the ground. Don't think, dear, I'm blaming your mother. I'm not. She but obeyed her heart, which was right; and she made the wiser choice, anyway, as was proved by the dreary waste I've made of life because of that disappointment. After all, Pollyanna, isn't it strange," added John Pendleton, his voice growing tender, "that it should be the little hand of her own daughter that led me into the path of happiness, at last?"
Pollyanna moistened her lips convulsively.
"Oh, but Mr. Pendleton, I—I—"
Once again the man brushed aside her protests with a smiling gesture.
"Yes, it was, Pollyanna, your little hand in the long ago—you, and your glad game."
"Oh-h!" Pollyanna relaxed visibly in her seat. The terror in her eyes began slowly to recede.
"And so all these years I've been gradually growing into a different man, Pollyanna. But there's one thing I haven't changed in, my dear." He paused, looked away, then turned gravely tender eyes back to her face. "I still think it takes a woman's hand and heart or a child's presence to make a home."
"Yes; b-but you've g-got the child's presence," plunged in Pollyanna, the terror coming back to her eyes. "There's Jimmy, you know."
The man gave an amused laugh.
"I know; but—I don't think even you would say
