that Jimmy is—is exactly a Child's presence any longer," he remarked.
"N-no, of course not."
"Besides—Pollyanna, I've made up my mind. I've got to have the woman's hand and heart." His voice dropped, and trembled a little.
"Oh-h, have you?" Pollyanna's fingers met and clutched each other in a spasmodic clasp. John Pendleton, however, seemed neither to hear nor see. He had leaped to his feet, and was nervously pacing up and down the little house.
"Pollyanna," he stopped and faced her; "if—if you were I, and were going to ask the woman you loved to come and make your old gray pile of stone a home, how would you go to work to do it?"
Pollyanna half started from her chair. Her eyes sought the door, this time openly, longingly.
"Oh, but, Mr. Pendleton, I wouldn't do it at all, at all," she stammered, a little wildly. "I'm sure you'd be—much happier as—as you are."
The man stared in puzzled surprise, then laughed grimly.
"Upon my word, Pollyanna, is it—quite so bad as that?" he asked.
"B-bad?" Pollyanna had the appearance of being poised for flight.
"Yes. Is that just your way of trying to soften the blow of saying that you don't think she'd have me, anyway?"
"Oh, n-no—no, indeed. She'd say yes—she'd have to say yes, you know," explained Pollyanna, with
