“Glad for—crutches!” Miss Polly choked back a sob—she was thinking of the helpless little legs on the bed upstairs.

“Yes’m. That’s what I said, an’ Miss Pollyanna said that’s what she said, too. But he told her she could be glad—’cause she didn’t need ’em.”

“Oh-h!” cried Miss Polly.

“And after that she said he made a regular game of it—findin’ somethin’ in everythin’ ter be glad about. An’ she said ye could do it, too, and that ye didn’t seem ter mind not havin’ the doll so much, ’cause ye was so glad ye didn’t need the crutches. An’ they called it the ’jest bein’ glad’ game. That’s the game, ma’am. She’s played it ever since.”

“But, how—how—” Miss Polly came to a helpless pause.

“An’ you’d be surprised ter find how cute it works, ma’am, too,” maintained Nancy, with almost the eagerness of Pollyanna herself. “I wish I could tell ye what a lot she’s done for mother an’ the folks out home. She’s been ter see ’em, ye know, twice, with me. She’s made me glad, too, on such a lot o’ things—little things, an’ big things; an’ it’s made ’em so much easier. For instance, I don’t mind ‘Nancy’ for a name half as much since she told me I could be glad ’twa’n’t ‘Hephzibah.’ An’ there’s Monday mornin’s, too, that I used ter hate so. She’s actually made me glad for Monday mornin’s.”

“Glad—for Monday mornings!”

Nancy laughed.

“I know it does sound nutty, ma’am. But let me tell ye. That blessed lamb found out I hated Monday mornin’s somethin’ awful; an’ what does she up an’ tell me one day but this: ‘Well, anyhow, Nancy, I should think you could be gladder on Monday mornin’ than on any other day in the week, because ’twould be a whole week before you’d have another one!’ An’ I’m blest if I hain’t thought of it ev’ry Monday mornin’ since—an’ it has helped, ma’am. It made me laugh, anyhow, ev’ry time I thought of it; an’ laughin’ helps, ye know—it does, it does!”

“But why hasn’t—she told me—the game?” faltered Miss Polly. “Why has she made such a mystery of it, when I asked her?”

Nancy hesitated.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, you told her not ter speak of—her father; so she couldn’t tell ye. ’Twas her father’s game, ye see.”

Miss Polly bit her lip.

“She wanted ter tell ye, first off,” continued Nancy, a little unsteadily. “She wanted somebody ter play it with, ye know. That’s why I begun it, so she could have some one.”

“And—and—these others?” Miss Polly’s voice shook now.

“Oh, ev’rybody, ’most, knows it now, I guess. Anyhow, I should think they did from the way I’m hearin’ of it ev’rywhere I go. Of course she told a lot, and they told the rest. Them things go, ye know, when they gets started. An’ she was always so smilin’ an’ pleasant ter ev’ry one, an’ so—so jest glad herself all the time, that they couldn’t help knowin’ it, anyhow. Now, since she’s hurt, ev’rybody feels so bad—specially when they heard how bad she feels ’cause she can’t find anythin’ ter be glad about. An’ so they’ve been comin’ ev’ry day ter tell her how glad she’s made them, hopin’ that’ll help some. Ye see, she’s always wanted ev’rybody ter play the game with her.”