Pollyanna. I asked her to be my wife, and she consented." The elder man made a delighted exclamation, but the other did not pause, or change his sternly intent expression. "She says now she can't—marry me. Mrs. Chilton objects. She objects to me."
"Objects to you!" John Pendleton's eyes flashed angrily.
"Yes. I found out why when—when Pollyanna begged if I couldn't tell her aunt something about—about my father and my people."
"Shucks! I thought Polly Chilton had more sense—still, it's just like her, after all. The Harringtons have always been inordinately proud of race and family," snapped John Pendleton. "Well, could you?"
"Could I! It was on the end of my tongue to tell Pollyanna that there couldn't have been a better father than mine was; then, suddenly, I remembered—the packet, and what it said. And I was afraid. I didn't dare say a word till I knew what was inside that packet. There's something dad didn't want me to know till I was thirty years old—when I would be a man grown, and could stand anything. See? There's a secret somewhere in our lives. I've got to know that secret, and I've got to know it now."
"But, Jimmy, lad, don't look so tragic. It may be a good secret. Perhaps it'll be something you'll like to know."
"Perhaps. But if it had been, would he have been apt to keep it from me till I was thirty years old? No! Uncle John, it was something he was trying to save me from till I was old enough to stand it and
