"Did he, indeed—the young rascal!" retorted John Pendleton, dryly.
Then, with one of the curiously abrupt changes of manner peculiar to
him, he said, very low: "You have your mother's eyes and smile,
Pollyanna; and to me you are—beautiful."
And Pollyanna, her eyes blinded with sudden hot tears, was silenced.
Dear as were these talks, however, they still were not quite like the talks with Jimmy, to Pollyanna. For that matter, she and Jimmy did not need to TALK to be happy. Jimmy was always so comfortable, and comforting; whether they talked or not did not matter. Jimmy always understood. There was no pulling on her heart-strings for sympathy, with Jimmy—Jimmy was delightfully big, and strong, and happy. Jimmy was not sorrowing for a long-lost nephew, nor pining for the loss of a boyhood sweetheart. Jimmy did not have to swing himself painfully about on a pair of crutches—all of which was so hard to see, and know, and think of. With Jimmy one could be just glad, and happy, and free. Jimmy was such a dear! He always rested one so—did Jimmy!
CHAPTER XXIII
"TIED TO TWO STICKS"
It was on the last day at camp that it happened. To Pollyanna it seemed such a pity that it should have happened at all, for it was the first cloud to bring a shadow of regret and unhappiness to her heart during the whole trip, and she found herself futilely sighing:
"I wish we'd gone home day before yesterday; then it wouldn't have happened."
But they had not gone home "day before yesterday," and it had happened; and this was the manner of it.
Early in the morning of that last day they had all started on a two-mile tramp to "the Basin."
"We'll have one more bang-up fish dinner before we go," Jimmy had said. And the rest had joyfully agreed.