"What will you tell her?"
"I don't know—exactly; but not any more than I can't help, certainly. Whatever happens, Thomas, we don't want to spoil Pollyanna; and no child could help being spoiled if she once got it into her head that she was a sort of—of—"
"Of medicine bottle with a label of full instructions for taking?" interpolated the doctor, with a smile.
"Yes," sighed Mrs. Chilton. "It's her unconsciousness that saves the whole thing. You know that, dear."
"Yes, I know," nodded the man.
"She knows, of course, that you and I, and half the town are playing the game with her, and that we—we are wonderfully happier because we are playing it." Mrs. Chilton's voice shook a little, then went on more steadily." But if, consciously, she should begin to be anything but her own natural, sunny, happy little self, playing the game that her father taught her, she would be—just what that nurse said she sounded like—'impossible.' So, whatever I tell her, I sha'n't tell her that she's going down to Mrs. Carew's to cheer her up," concluded Mrs. Chilton, rising to her feet with decision, and putting away her work.
"Which is where I think you're wise," approved the doctor.
Pollyanna was told the next day; and this was the manner of it.
"My dear," began her aunt, when the two were alone together that morning, "how would you like to spend next winter in Boston?"
