Поллианна
Sermons and Woodboxes
’"Itwasabitterdenunciation. Inthegreenaislesofthewoods,theminister’sdeepvoicerangoutwithscathingeffect. Eventhebirdsandsquirrelsseemedhushedintoawedsilence. ItbroughttotheministeravividrealizationofhowthosewordswouldsoundthenextSundaywhenheshouldutterthembeforehispeopleinthesacredhushofthechurch.
Hispeople!—theyWEREhispeople. Couldhedoit? Darehedoit? Darehenotdoit? Itwasafearfuldenunciation,evenwithoutthewordsthatwouldfollow—hisownwords. Hehadprayedandprayed. Hehadpleadedearnestlyforhelp,forguidance. Helonged—oh,howearnestlyhelonged! —totakenow,inthiscrisis,therightstep. Butwasthis—therightstep?
Slowlytheministerfoldedthepapersandthrustthembackintohispocket. Then,withasighthatwasalmostamoan,heflunghimselfdownatthefootofatree,andcoveredhisfacewithhishands.
ItwastherethatPollyanna,onherwayhomefromthePendletonhouse,foundhim. Withalittlecrysheranforward.
"Oh,oh,Mr.Ford! You—YOUhaven’tbrokenYOURlegor—oranything,haveyou?"shegasped.
Theministerdroppedhishands,andlookedupquickly. Hetriedtosmile.
"No,dear—no,indeed! I’mjust—resting."
"Oh,"sighedPollyanna,fallingbackalittle. "That’sallright,then. Yousee,Mr.PendletonHADbrokenhislegwhenIfoundhim—buthewaslyingdown,though. Andyouaresittingup."
