Поллианна

           "Thankyou,"saidJohnPendleton,gently. 

           Aftersupperthatevening,Pollyanna,sittingonthebackporch,toldNancyallaboutMr.JohnPendleton’swonderfulcarvedbox,andthestillmorewonderfulthingsitcontained. 

           "Andterthink,"sighedNancy,"thatheSHOWEDyeallthemthings,andtoldyeabout‘emlikethat—himthat’ssocrosshenevertalksternoone—noone!" 

           "Oh,butheisn’tcross,Nancy,onlyoutside,"demurredPollyanna,withquickloyalty. "Idon’tseewhyeverybodythinkshe’ssobad,either. Theywouldn’t,iftheyknewhim. ButevenAuntPollydoesn’tlikehimverywell. Shewouldn’tsendthejellytohim,youknow,andshewassoafraidhe’dthinkshedidsendit!" 

           "Probablyshedidn’tcallhimnoduty,"shruggedNancy. "Butwhatbeatsmeishowhehappenedtertaketeryouso,MissPollyanna—meanin’nooffenceteryou,ofcourse—butheain’tthesorto’manwhatgen’rallytakesterkids; heain’t,heain’t." 

           Pollyannasmiledhappily. 

           "Buthedid,Nancy,"shenodded,"onlyIreckonevenhedidn’twantto—ALLthetime. Why,onlyto-dayheownedupthatonetimehejustfeltheneverwantedtoseemeagain,becauseIremindedhimofsomethinghewantedtoforget. Butafterwards—" 

           "What’sthat?"interruptedNancy,excitedly. "Hesaidyouremindedhimofsomethinghewantedtoforget?" 

           "Yes. Butafterwards—" 

           "Whatwasit?"Nancywaseagerlyinsistent.