don't tease me—about that. I'd so love to be beautiful—though of course it sounds silly to say it. And I have a mirror, you know."
"Then I advise you to look in it—when you're talking sometime," observed the man sententiously.
Pollyanna's eyes flew wide open.
"Why, that's just what Jimmy said," she cried.
"Did he, indeed—the young rascal!" retorted John Pendleton, dryly. Then, with one of the curiously abrupt changes of manner peculiar to him, he said, very low: "You have your mother's eyes and smile, Pollyanna; and to me you are—beautiful."
And Pollyanna, her eyes blinded with sudden hot tears, was silenced.
Dear as were these talks, however, they still were not quite like the talks with Jimmy, to Pollyanna. For that matter, she and Jimmy did not need to talk to be happy. Jimmy was always so comfortable, and comforting; whether they talked or not did not matter. Jimmy always understood. There was no pulling on her heart-strings for sympathy, with Jimmy—Jimmy was delightfully big, and strong, and happy. Jimmy was not sorrowing for a long-lost nephew, nor pining for the loss of a boyhood sweetheart. Jimmy did not have to swing himself painfully about on a pair of crutches—all of which was so hard to see, and know, and think of. With Jimmy one could be just glad, and happy, and free. Jimmy was such a dear! He always rested one so—did Jimmy!
