Prisms

           AsthewarmAugustdayspassed,PollyannawentveryfrequentlytothegreathouseonPendletonHill. Shedidnotfeel,however,thathervisitswerereallyasuccess. Notbutthatthemanseemedtowantherthere—hesentforher,indeed,frequently; butthatwhenshewasthere,heseemedscarcelyanythehappierforherpresence—atleast,soPollyannathought. 

           Hetalkedtoher,itwastrue,andheshowedhermanystrangeandbeautifulthings—books,pictures,andcurios. Buthestillfrettedaudiblyoverhisownhelplessness,andhechafedvisiblyundertherulesand"regulatings"oftheunwelcomemembersofhishousehold. Hedid,indeed,seemtoliketohearPollyannatalk,however,andPollyannatalked,Pollyannalikedtotalk—butshewasneversurethatshewouldnotlookupandfindhimlyingbackonhispillowwiththatwhite,hurtlookthatalwayspainedher; andshewasneversurewhich—ifany—ofherwordshadbroughtitthere. Asfortellinghimthe"gladgame,"andtryingtogethimtoplayit—Pollyannahadneverseenthetimeyetwhenshethoughthewouldcaretohearaboutit. Shehadtwicetriedtotellhim; butneithertimehadshegotbeyondthebeginningofwhatherfatherhadsaid—JohnPendletonhadoneachoccasionturnedtheconversationabruptlytoanothersubject. 

           PollyannaneverdoubtednowthatJohnPendletonwasherAuntPolly’sone-timelover; andwithallthestrengthofherloving,loyalheart,shewishedshecouldinsomewaybringhappinessintotheirtohermind—miserablylonelylives.