“Was YOUR father a minister, Pollyanna?”
“Yes, sir. Didn't you know? I supposed everybody knew that. He married Aunt Polly's sister, and she was my mother.”
“Oh, I understand. But, you see, I haven't been here many years, so I don't know all the family histories.”
“Yes, sir—I mean, no, sir,” smiled Pollyanna.
There was a long pause. The minister, still sitting at the foot of the tree, appeared to have forgotten Pollyanna's presence. He had pulled some papers from his pocket and unfolded them; but he was not looking at them. He was gazing, instead, at a leaf on the ground a little distance away—and it was not even a pretty leaf. It was brown and dead. Pollyanna, looking at him, felt vaguely sorry for him.
“It—it's a nice day,” she began hopefully.
For a moment there was no answer; then the minister looked up with a start.
“What? Oh!—yes, it is a very nice day.”
“And 'tisn't cold at all, either, even if 'tis October,” observed Pollyanna, still more hopefully. “Mr. Pendleton had a fire, but he said he didn't need it. It was just to look at. I like to look at fires, don't you?”
There was no reply this time, though Pollyanna waited patiently, before she tried again—by a new route.