“Yes; I’m her niece. She’s taken me to bring up—on account of my mother, you know,” faltered Pollyanna, in a low voice. “She was her sister. And after father—went to be with her and the rest of us in Heaven, there wasn’t any one left for me down here but the Ladies’ Aid; so she took me.”

The man did not answer. His face, as he lay back on the pillow now, was very white—so white that Pollyanna was frightened. She rose uncertainly to her feet.

“I reckon maybe I’d better go now,” she proposed. “I—I hope you’ll like—the jelly.”

The man turned his head suddenly, and opened his eyes. There was a curious longing in their dark depths which even Pollyanna saw, and at which she marvelled.

“And so you are—Miss Polly Harrington’s niece,” he said gently.

“Yes, sir.”

Still the man’s dark eyes lingered on her face, until Pollyanna, feeling vaguely restless, murmured:

“I—I suppose you know—her.”

John Pendleton’s lips curved in an odd smile.

“Oh, yes; I know her.” He hesitated, then went on, still with that curious smile. “But—you don’t mean—you can’t mean that it was Miss Polly Harrington who sent that jelly—to me?” he said slowly,

Pollyanna looked distressed.

“N-no, sir: she didn’t. She said I must be very sure not to let you think she did send it. But I—”

“I thought as much,” vouchsafed the man, shortly, turning away his head. And Pollyanna, still more distressed, tiptoed from the room.

Under the porte-cochère she found the doctor waiting in his gig. The nurse stood on the steps.

“Well, Miss Pollyanna, may I have the pleasure of seeing you home?” asked the doctor smilingly. “I started to drive on a few minutes ago; then it occurred to me that I’d wait for you.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad you did. I just love to ride,” beamed Pollyanna, as he reached out his hand to help her in.

“Do you?” smiled the doctor, nodding his head in farewell to the young man on the steps. “Well, as near as I can judge, there are a good many things you ‘love’ to do—eh?” he added, as they drove briskly away.

Pollyanna laughed.

“Why, I don’t know. I reckon perhaps there are,” she admitted. “I like to do ’most everything that’s living. Of course I don’t like the other things very well—sewing, and reading out loud, and all that. But they aren’t living.”

“No? What are they, then?

“Aunt Polly says they’re ‘learning to live,’ sighed Pollyanna, with a rueful smile.

The doctor smiled now—a little queerly.

“Does she? Well, I should think she might say—just that.”