“Oh, oh!” she cried, clapping her hands. “I'm so glad! That is,” she corrected, coloring distressfully, “I don't mean that I'm not sorry for the heathen, only just now I can't help being glad that you don't want the little India boys, because all the rest have wanted them. And so I'm glad you'd rather have Jimmy Bean. Now I know you'll take him!”
“Take—WHO?”
“Jimmy Bean. He's the 'child's presence,' you know; and he'll be so glad to be it. I had to tell him last week that even my Ladies' Aid out West wouldn't take him, and he was so disappointed. But now—when he hears of this—he'll be so glad!”
“Will he? Well, I won't,” ejaculated the man, decisively. “Pollyanna, this is sheer nonsense!”
“You don't mean—you won't take him?”
“I certainly do mean just that.”
“But he'd be a lovely child's presence,” faltered Pollyanna. She was almost crying now. “And you COULDN'T be lonesome—with Jimmy 'round.”
“I don't doubt it,” rejoined the man; “but—I think I prefer the lonesomeness.”
It was then that Pollyanna, for the first time in weeks, suddenly remembered something Nancy had once told her. She raised her chin aggrievedly.
“Maybe you think a nice live little boy wouldn't be better than that old dead skeleton you keep somewhere; but I think it would!”