looked for you every day. But I'm so sorry you're sick!"
Jamie smiled radiantly and held out a thin white hand.
"I ain't sorry—I'm glad," he emphasized meaningly; "’cause it's brought you to see me. Besides, I'm better now, anyway. Mumsey, this is the little girl, you know, that told me the glad game—and mumsey's playing it, too," he triumphed, turning back to Pollyanna. "First she cried 'cause her back hurts too bad to let her work; then when I was took worse she was glad she couldn't work, 'cause she could be here to take care of me, you know."
At that moment Mrs. Carew hurried forward, her eyes half-fearfully, half-longingly on the face of the lame boy in the bed.
"It's Mrs. Carew. I've brought her to see you, Jamie," introduced Pollyanna, in a tremulous voice.
The little twisted woman by the bed had struggled to her feet by this time, and was nervously offering her chair. Mrs. Carew accepted it without so much as a glance. Her eyes were still on the boy in the bed.
"Your name is—Jamie?" she asked, with visible difficulty.
"Yes, ma'am." The boy's bright eyes looked straight into hers.
"What is your other name?"
"I don't know."
"He is not your son?" For the first time Mrs. Carew turned to the twisted little woman who was still standing by the bed.
