cross, crabbed, unlovable, unloved old man—though I’m not nearly sixty, yet, Pollyanna. Then, One day, like one of the prisms that you love so well, little girl, you danced into my life, and flecked my dreary old world with dashes of the purple and gold and scarlet of your own bright cheeriness. I found out, after a time, who you were, and—and I thought then I never wanted to see you again. I didn’t want to be reminded of—your mother. But—you know how that came out. I just had to have you come. And now I want you always. Pollyanna, won’t you come now?”

“But, Mr. Pendleton, I—There’s Aunt Polly!” Pollyanna’s eyes were blurred with tears.

The man made an impatient gesture.

“What about me? How do you suppose I’m going to be ‘glad’ about anything—without you? Why, Pollyanna, it’s only since you came that I’ve been even half glad to live! But if I had you for my own little girl, I’d be glad for—anything; and I’d try to make you glad, too, my dear. You shouldn’t have a wish ungratified. All my money, to the last cent, should go to make you happy.”

Pollyanna looked shocked.

“Why, Mr. Pendleton, as if I’d let you spend it on me—all that money you’ve saved for the heathen!”

A dull red came to the man’s face. He started to speak, but Pollyanna was still talking.

“Besides, anybody with such a lot of money as you have doesn’t need me to make you glad about things. You’re making other folks so glad giving them things that you just can’t help being glad yourself! Why, look at those prisms you gave Mrs. Snow and me, and the gold piece you gave Nancy on her birthday, and—”

“Yes, yes—never mind about all that,” interrupted the man. His face was very, very red now—and no wonder, perhaps: it was not for “giving things” that John Pendleton had been best known in the past. “That’s all nonsense. ’Twasn’t much, anyhow—but what there was, was because of you. YOU gave those things; not I! Yes, you did,” he repeated, in answer to the shocked denial in her face. “And that only goes to prove all the more how I need you, little girl,” he added, his voice softening into tender pleading once more. “If ever, ever I am to play the ‘glad game,’ Pollyanna, you’ll have to come and play it with me.”

The little girl’s forehead puckered into a wistful frown.

“Aunt Polly has been so good to me,” she began; but the man interrupted her sharply. The old irritability had come back to his face. Impatience which would brook no opposition had been a part of John Pendleton’s nature too long to yield very easily now to restraint.

“Of course she’s been good to you! But she doesn’t want you, I’ll warrant, half so much as I do,” he contested.

“Why, Mr. Pendleton, she’s glad, I know, to have—”

“Glad!” interrupted the man, thoroughly losing his patience now. “I’ll wager Miss Polly doesn’t know how to be glad—for anything! Oh, she does her duty, I know. She’s a very dutiful woman. I’ve had experience with her ‘duty,’ before. I’ll acknowledge we haven’t been the best of friends for the last fifteen or twenty years. But I know her. Every one knows her—and she isn’t the ’glad’ kind, Pollyanna. She doesn’t know how to be. As for your coming to me—you just ask her and see if she won’t let you come. And, oh, little girl, little girl, I want you so!” he finished brokenly.

Pollyanna rose to her feet with a long sigh.