Pollyanna, Eleanor H. Porter [the top 100 crime novels of all time txt] 📗

and heart or a child’s presence could make a home. And I can get it for you⁠—a child’s presence;⁠—not me, you know, but another one.”

“As if I would have any but you!” resented an indignant voice.

“But you will⁠—when you know; you’re so kind and good! Why, think of the prisms and the gold pieces, and all that money you save for the heathen, and⁠—”

“Pollyanna!” interrupted the man, savagely. “Once for all let us end that nonsense! I’ve tried to tell you half a dozen times before. There is no money for the heathen. I never sent a penny to them in my life. There!”

He lifted his chin and braced himself to meet what he expected⁠—the grieved disappointment of Pollyanna’s eyes. To his amazement, however, there was neither grief nor disappointment in Pollyanna’s eyes. There was only surprised joy.

“Oh, oh!” she cried, clapping her hands. “I’m so glad! That is,” she corrected, coloring distressfully, “I don’t mean that I’m not sorry for the heathen, only just now I can’t help being glad that you don’t want the little India boys, because all the rest have wanted them. And so I’m glad you’d rather have Jimmy Bean. Now I know you’ll take him!”

“Take⁠—who?”

“Jimmy Bean. He’s the ‘child’s presence,’ you know; and he’ll be so glad to be it. I had to tell him last week that even my Ladies’ Aid out West wouldn’t take him, and he was so disappointed. But now⁠—when he hears of this⁠—he’ll be so glad!”

“Will he? Well, I won’t,” ejaculated the man, decisively. “Pollyanna, this is sheer nonsense!”

“You don’t mean⁠—you won’t take him?”

“I certainly do mean just that.”

“But he’d be a lovely child’s presence,” faltered Pollyanna. She was almost crying now. “And you couldn’t be lonesome⁠—with Jimmy ’round.”

“I don’t doubt it,” rejoined the man; “but⁠—I think I prefer the lonesomeness.”

It was then that Pollyanna, for the first time in weeks, suddenly remembered something Nancy had once told her. She raised her chin aggrievedly.

“Maybe you think a nice live little boy wouldn’t be better than that old dead skeleton you keep somewhere; but I think it would!”

“Skeleton?”

“Yes. Nancy said you had one in your closet, somewhere.”

“Why, what⁠—” Suddenly the man threw back his head and laughed. He laughed very heartily indeed⁠—so heartily that Pollyanna began to cry from pure nervousness. When he saw that, John Pendleton sat erect very promptly. His face grew grave at once.

“Pollyanna, I suspect you are right⁠—more right than you know,” he said gently. “In fact, I know that a ‘nice live little boy’ would be far better than⁠—my skeleton in the closet; only⁠—we aren’t always willing to make the exchange. We are apt to still cling to⁠—our skeletons, Pollyanna. However, suppose you tell me a little more about this nice little boy.” And Pollyanna told him.

Perhaps the laugh cleared the air; or perhaps the pathos of Jimmy Bean’s story as told by Pollyanna’s eager little lips touched a heart already strangely softened. At all events, when Pollyanna went home that night she carried with her an invitation for Jimmy Bean himself to call at the great house with Pollyanna the next Saturday afternoon.

“And I’m so glad, and I’m sure you’ll like him,” sighed Pollyanna, as she said goodbye. “I do so want Jimmy Bean to have a home⁠—and folks that care, you know.”

XXII Sermons and Woodboxes

On the afternoon that Pollyanna told John Pendleton of Jimmy Bean, the Rev. Paul Ford climbed the hill and entered the Pendleton Woods, hoping that the hushed beauty of God’s out-of-doors would still the tumult that His children of men had wrought.

The Rev. Paul Ford was sick at heart. Month by month, for a year past, conditions in the parish under him had been growing worse and worse; until it seemed that now, turn which way he would, he encountered only wrangling, backbiting, scandal, and jealousy. He had argued, pleaded, rebuked, and ignored by turns; and always and through all he had prayed⁠—earnestly, hopefully. But today miserably he was forced to own that matters were no better, but rather worse.

Two of his deacons were at swords’ points over a silly something that only endless brooding had made of any account. Three of his most energetic women workers had withdrawn from the Ladies’ Aid Society because a tiny spark of gossip had been fanned by wagging tongues into a devouring flame of scandal. The choir had split over the amount of solo work given to a fanciedly preferred singer. Even the Christian Endeavor Society was in a ferment of unrest owing to open criticism of two of its officers. As to the Sunday school⁠—it had been the resignation of its superintendent and two of its teachers that had been the last straw, and that had sent the harassed minister to the quiet woods for prayer and meditation.

Under the green arch of the trees the Rev. Paul Ford faced the thing squarely. To his mind, the crisis had come. Something must be done⁠—and done at once. The entire work of the church was at a standstill. The Sunday services, the weekday prayer meeting, the missionary teas, even the suppers and socials were becoming less and less well attended. True, a few conscientious workers were still left. But they pulled at cross purposes, usually; and always they showed themselves to be acutely aware of the critical eyes all about them, and of the tongues that had nothing to do but to talk about what the eyes saw.

And because of all this, the Rev. Paul Ford understood very well that he (God’s minister), the church, the town, and even Christianity itself was suffering; and must suffer still more unless⁠—

Clearly something must be done, and done at once. But what?

Slowly the minister took from his pocket the notes he had made for his next Sunday’s sermon. Frowningly he looked at them. His mouth settled into stern lines, as aloud, very impressively, he read the verses on which he had determined to speak:

“ ’But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees,