Slowly the minister folded the papers and thrust them back into his pocket. Then, with a sigh that was almost a moan, he flung himself down at the foot of a tree, and covered his face with his hands.
It was there that Pollyanna, on her way home from the Pendleton house, found him. With a little cry she ran forward.
“Oh, oh, Mr. Ford! You—YOU haven't broken YOUR leg or—or anything, have you?” she gasped.
The minister dropped his hands, and looked up quickly. He tried to smile.
“No, dear—no, indeed! I'm just—resting.”
“Oh,” sighed Pollyanna, falling back a little. “That's all right, then. You see, Mr. Pendleton HAD broken his leg when I found him—but he was lying down, though. And you are sitting up.”
“Yes, I am sitting up; and I haven't broken anything—that doctors can mend.”
The last words were very low, but Pollyanna heard them. A swift change crossed her face. Her eyes glowed with tender sympathy.
“I know what you mean—something plagues you. Father used to feel like that, lots of times. I reckon ministers do—most generally. You see there's such a lot depends on 'em, somehow.”
The Rev. Paul Ford turned a little wonderingly.