Pollyanna shrank back. She was white and trembling.
"Jimmy, what do you mean? What do you mean?" she begged piteously.
"I mean—you don't care for Uncle John, that way. Don't you understand? Jamie thinks you do care, and that anyway he cares for you. And then I began to see it—that maybe he did. He's always talking about you; and, of course, there was your mother—"
Pollyanna gave a low moan and covered her face with her hands. Jimmy came close and laid a caressing arm about her shoulders; but again Pollyanna shrank from him.
"Pollyanna, little girl, don't! You'll break my heart," he begged. "Don't you care for me—ANY? Is it that, and you don't want to tell me?"
She dropped her hands and faced him. Her eyes had the hunted look of some wild thing at bay.
"Jimmy, do YOU think—he cares for me—that way?" she entreated, just above a whisper.
Jimmy gave his head an impatient shake.
"Never mind that, Pollyanna,—now. I don't know, of course. How should I? But, dearest, that isn't the question. It's you. If YOU don't care for him, and if you'll only give me a chance—half a chance to let me make you care for me—" He caught her hand, and tried to draw her to him.
"No, no, Jimmy, I mustn't! I can't!" With both her little palms she pushed him from her.