"Very well, I—I'll attend to it," she murmured, in a half-stifled voice, turning away. "Come, Pollyanna, we must go now."
Over at the bed Pollyanna was bidding Jamie a tearful good-by.
"But I'll come again. I'll come real soon," she promised brightly, as she hurried through the door after Mrs. Carew.
Not until they had picked their precarious way down the three long flights of stairs and through the jabbering, gesticulating crowd of men, women, and children that surrounded the scowling Perkins and the limousine, did Pollyanna speak again. But then she scarcely waited for the irate chauffeur to slam the door upon them before she pleaded:
"Dear Mrs. Carew, please, please say that it was Jamie! Oh, it would be so nice for him to be Jamie."
"But he isn't Jamie!"
"O dear! Are you sure?"
There was a moment's pause, then Mrs. Carew covered her face with her hands.
"No, I'm not sure—and that's the tragedy of it," she moaned. "I don't think he is; I'm almost positive he isn't. But, of course, there IS a chance—and that's what's killing me."
"Then can't you just THINK he's Jamie," begged Pollyanna, "and play he was? Then you could take him home, and—" But Mrs. Carew turned fiercely.