"But I'll risk Jimmy, and I'll risk wagering that those girls never had a better time than he'll give them to-night, too."
"Y-yes, of course," stammered Pollyanna, trying to keep the hated tremulousness out of her voice, and trying very hard not to compare her own dreary evening in Beldingsville with nobody but John Pendleton to that of those fifty girls in Boston—with Jimmy.
There was a brief pause, during which John Pendleton gazed dreamily at the dancing fire on the hearth.
"She's a wonderful woman—Mrs. Carew is," he said at last.
"She is, indeed!" This time the enthusiasm in Pollyanna's voice was all pure gold.
"Jimmy's written me before something of what she's done for those girls," went on the man, still gazing into the fire. "In just the last letter before this he wrote a lot about it, and about her. He said he always admired her, but never so much as now, when he can see what she really is."
"She's a dear—that's what Mrs. Carew is," declared Pollyanna, warmly. "She's a dear in every way, and I love her."
John Pendleton stirred suddenly. He turned to Pollyanna with an oddly whimsical look in his eyes.
"I know you do, my dear. For that matter, there may be others, too—that love her."
Pollyanna's heart skipped a beat. A sudden thought came to her with stunning, blinding force. Jimmy!
