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

name half as much since she told me I could be glad ’twa’n’t ‘Hephzibah.’ An’ there’s Monday mornin’s, too, that I used ter hate so. She’s actually made me glad for Monday mornin’s.”

“Glad⁠—for Monday mornings!”

Nancy laughed.

“I know it does sound nutty, ma’am. But let me tell ye. That blessed lamb found out I hated Monday mornin’s somethin’ awful; an’ what does she up an’ tell me one day but this: ‘Well, anyhow, Nancy, I should think you could be gladder on Monday mornin’ than on any other day in the week, because ’twould be a whole week before you’d have another one!’ An’ I’m blest if I hain’t thought of it ev’ry Monday mornin’ since⁠—an’ it has helped, ma’am. It made me laugh, anyhow, ev’ry time I thought of it; an’ laughin’ helps, ye know⁠—it does, it does!”

“But why hasn’t⁠—she told me⁠—the game?” faltered Miss Polly. “Why has she made such a mystery of it, when I asked her?”

Nancy hesitated.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, you told her not ter speak of⁠—her father; so she couldn’t tell ye. ’Twas her father’s game, ye see.”

Miss Polly bit her lip.

“She wanted ter tell ye, first off,” continued Nancy, a little unsteadily. “She wanted somebody ter play it with, ye know. That’s why I begun it, so she could have someone.”

“And⁠—and⁠—these others?” Miss Polly’s voice shook now.

“Oh, ev’rybody, ’most, knows it now, I guess. Anyhow, I should think they did from the way I’m hearin’ of it ev’rywhere I go. Of course she told a lot, and they told the rest. Them things go, ye know, when they gets started. An’ she was always so smilin’ an’ pleasant ter ev’ry one, an’ so⁠—so jest glad herself all the time, that they couldn’t help knowin’ it, anyhow. Now, since she’s hurt, ev’rybody feels so bad⁠—specially when they heard how bad she feels ’cause she can’t find anythin’ ter be glad about. An’ so they’ve been comin’ ev’ry day ter tell her how glad she’s made them, hopin’ that’ll help some. Ye see, she’s always wanted ev’rybody ter play the game with her.”

“Well, I know somebody who’ll play it⁠—now,” choked Miss Polly, as she turned and sped through the kitchen doorway.

Behind her, Nancy stood staring amazedly.

“Well, I’ll believe anythin’⁠—anythin’ now,” she muttered to herself. “Ye can’t stump me with anythin’ I wouldn’t believe, now⁠—o’ Miss Polly!”

A little later, in Pollyanna’s room, the nurse left Miss Polly and Pollyanna alone together.

“And you’ve had still another caller today, my dear,” announced Miss Polly, in a voice she vainly tried to steady. “Do you remember Mrs. Payson?”

“Mrs. Payson? Why, I reckon I do! She lives on the way to Mr. Pendleton’s, and she’s got the prettiest little girl baby three years old, and a boy ’most five. She’s awfully nice, and so’s her husband⁠—only they don’t seem to know how nice each other is. Sometimes they fight⁠—I mean, they don’t quite agree. They’re poor, too, they say, and of course they don’t ever have barrels, ’cause he isn’t a missionary minister, you know, like⁠—well, he isn’t.”

A faint color stole into Pollyanna’s cheeks which was duplicated suddenly in those of her aunt.

“But she wears real pretty clothes, sometimes, in spite of their being so poor,” resumed Pollyanna, in some haste. “And she’s got perfectly beautiful rings with diamonds and rubies and emeralds in them; but she says she’s got one ring too many, and that she’s going to throw it away and get a divorce instead. What is a divorce, Aunt Polly? I’m afraid it isn’t very nice, because she didn’t look happy when she talked about it. And she said if she did get it, they wouldn’t live there any more, and that Mr. Payson would go ’way off, and maybe the children, too. But I should think they’d rather keep the ring, even if they did have so many more. Shouldn’t you? Aunt Polly, what is a divorce?”

“But they aren’t going ’way off, dear,” evaded Aunt Polly, hurriedly. “They’re going to stay right there together.”

“Oh, I’m so glad! Then they’ll be there when I go up to see⁠—O dear!” broke off the little girl, miserably. “Aunt Polly, why can’t I remember that my legs don’t go any more, and that I won’t ever, ever go up to see Mr. Pendleton again?”

“There, there, don’t,” choked her aunt. “Perhaps you’ll drive up sometime. But listen! I haven’t told you, yet, all that Mrs. Payson said. She wanted me to tell you that they⁠—they were going to stay together and to play the game, just as you wanted them to.”

Pollyanna smiled through tear-wet eyes.

“Did they? Did they, really? Oh, I am glad of that!”

“Yes, she said she hoped you’d be. That’s why she told you, to make you⁠—glad, Pollyanna.”

Pollyanna looked up quickly.

“Why, Aunt Polly, you⁠—you spoke just as if you knew⁠—Do you know about the game, Aunt Polly?”

“Yes, dear.” Miss Polly sternly forced her voice to be cheerfully matter-of-fact. “Nancy told me. I think it’s a beautiful game. I’m going to play it now⁠—with you.”

“Oh, Aunt Polly⁠—you? I’m so glad! You see, I’ve really wanted you most of anybody, all the time.”

Aunt Polly caught her breath a little sharply. It was even harder this time to keep her voice steady; but she did it.

“Yes, dear; and there are all those others, too. Why, Pollyanna, I think all the town is playing that game now with you⁠—even to the minister! I haven’t had a chance to tell you, yet, but this morning I met Mr. Ford when I was down to the village, and he told me to say to you that just as soon as you could see him, he was coming to tell you that he hadn’t stopped being glad over those eight hundred rejoicing texts that you told him about. So you see, dear, it’s just you that have done it. The whole town is playing the game, and the whole town is wonderfully happier⁠—and all because of one little girl who taught the people a new game, and how to play it.”

Pollyanna clapped her hands.

“Oh, I’m