"Oh-h-h! Oh!" exclaimed Pollyanna, the dawning happiness in her eyes leaping forth in a flash of ineffable joy and relief. "Then you love somebody—" By an almost superhuman effort Pollyanna choked off the "else" before it left her delighted lips.
"Love somebody! Haven't I just been telling you I did?" laughed John
Pendleton, half vexedly. "What I want to know is—can she be made to
love me? That's where I was sort of—of counting on your help,
Pollyanna. You see, she's a dear friend of yours."
"Is she?" gurgled Pollyanna. "Then she'll just have to love you. We'll make her! Maybe she does, anyway, already. Who is she?"
There was a long pause before the answer came.
"I believe, after all, Pollyanna, I won't—yes, I will, too.
It's—can't you guess?—Mrs. Carew."
"Oh!" breathed Pollyanna, with a face of unclouded joy. "How perfectly lovely! I'm so glad, GLAD, GLAD!"
A long hour later Pollyanna sent Jimmy a letter. It was confused and incoherent—a series of half-completed, illogical, but shyly joyous sentences, out of which Jimmy gathered much: a little from what was written; more from what was left unwritten. After all, did he really need more than this?
"Oh, Jimmy, he doesn't love me a bit. It's some one else. I mustn't tell you who it is—but her name isn't Pollyanna."
Jimmy had just time to catch the seven o'clock train for
Beldingsville—and he caught it.