SERMONS AND WOODBOXES
The last words were very low, but Pollyanna heard them. A swift change crossed her face. Her eyes glowed with tender sympathy.
"I know what you mean—something plagues you. Father used to feel like that, lots of times. I reckon ministers do—most generally. You see there's such a lot depends on 'em, somehow."
The Rev. Paul Ford turned a little wonderingly.
"Was your father a minister, Pollyanna?"
"Yes, sir. Didn't you know? I supposed everybody knew that. He married Aunt Polly's sister, and she was my mother."
"Oh, I understand. But, you see, I haven't been here many years, so I don't know all the family histories."
"Yes, sir—I mean, no, sir," Pollyanna smiled, looking into his face.
There was a long pause. The minister, still sitting at the foot of the tree, appeared to have forgotten Pollyanna's presence. He had pulled some papers from his pocket and unfolded them; but he was not looking at them. He was gazing, instead, at a leaf on the ground a little distance away—and it was not even a pretty leaf. It was brown and dead. Pollyanna, looking at him, felt vaguely sorry for him.
"It—it's a nice day," she began hopefully.
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