"Don't—don't, Pollyanna," moaned Mrs. Carew, turning her head from side to side, in a frenzy of grief. "When I think that maybe, somewhere, our Jamie is like that—" Only a choking sob finished the sentence.
"That's just what I mean—that's just what I mean!" triumphed Pollyanna, excitedly. "Don't you see? If this is your Jamie, of course you'll want him; and if it isn't, you couldn't be doing any harm to the other Jamie by taking this one, and you'd do a whole lot of good, for you'd make this one so happy—so happy! And then, by and by, if you should find the real Jamie, you wouldn't have lost anything, but you'd have made two little boys happy instead of one; and—" But again Mrs. Carew interrupted her.
"Don't, Pollyanna, don't! I want to think—I want to think."
Tearfully Pollyanna sat back in her seat. By a very visible effort she kept still for one whole minute. Then, as if the words fairly bubbled forth of themselves, there came this:
"Oh, but what an awful, awful place that was! I just wish the man that owned it had to live in it himself—and then see what he'd have to be glad for!"
Mrs. Carew sat suddenly erect. Her face showed a curious change. Almost as if in appeal she flung out her hand toward Pollyanna.
"Don't!" she cried. "Perhaps—she didn't know, Pollyanna. Perhaps she didn't know. I'm sure she didn't know—she owned a place like that. But it will be fixed now—it will be fixed."
