“Oh, yes, I was,” nodded Pollyanna, triumphantly; “and I found it, too. But ’tWAS hard. It’s all the more fun, though, always, when ’tis hard. And I will own up, honest to true[74], that I couldn’t think of anything for a while. Then I got it.”
“Well, you can be glad of that, then, anyhow, can’t you?” nodded Pollyanna. “Mrs. White couldn’t. You can’t thrash when you have rheumatic fever – though you want to something awful, Mrs. White says. She told me afterwards she reckoned she’d have gone raving crazy if it hadn’t been for Mr. White’s sister’s ears – being deaf, so.”
“Why, what a funny woman,” laughed Pollyanna. “I think I shall like to go to see her. She must be so surprising and – and different. I love DIFFERENT folks.”
“I know; that sounds like things father used to say,” faltered Pollyanna, blinking off the tears. “He said there was always something about everything that might be worse; but I reckon he’d never just heard he couldn’t ever walk again. I don’t see how there CAN be anything about that, that could be worse – do you?”
“The child’s presence,” stammered Pollyanna, hastily. “Mr. Pendleton told me once, you see, that only a woman’s hand and heart or a child’s presence could make a – a home. And now he’s got it – the child’s presence.”