Pollyanna's part, Aunt Polly threw up her hands with a gesture of half-laughing despair.
"That'll do, that'll do, child! I'll give up. I'll confess myself beaten at my own game. You can be—glad for that, if you like," she finished with a grim smile.
"I know, auntie, but you said—" began Pollyanna demurely.
"Yes, yes, but I never will again," interrupted Aunt Polly, with emphasis. "Mercy, what a day this has been! I never want to live through another like it." She hesitated, flushed a little, then went on with evident difficulty: "Furthermore, I—I want you to know that—that I understand I haven't played the game myself—very well, lately; but, after this, I'm going to—to try— Where's my handkerchief?" she finished sharply, fumbling in the folds of her dress.
Pollyanna sprang to her feet and crossed instantly to her aunt's side.
"Oh, but Aunt Polly, I didn't mean— It was just a—a joke," she quavered in quick distress. "I never thought of your taking it that way."
"Of course you didn't," snapped Aunt Polly, with all the asperity of a stern, repressed woman who abhors scenes and sentiment, and who is mortally afraid she will show that her heart has been touched. "Don't you suppose I know you didn't mean it that way? Do you think, if I thought you had been trying to teach me a lesson that I'd—I'd—" But Pollyanna's strong young arms had her in a close embrace, and she could not finish the sentence.
