John Pendleton

           Pollyannadidnotgotoschool"to-morrow,"northe"dayafterto-morrow." Pollyanna,however,didnotrealizethis,exceptmomentarilywhenabriefperiodoffullconsciousnesssentinsistentquestionstoherlips. Pollyannadidnotrealizeanything,infact,veryclearlyuntilaweekhadpassed; thenthefeversubsided,thepainlessenedsomewhat,andhermindawoketofullconsciousness. Shehadthentobetoldalloveragainwhathadoccurred. 

           "Andsoit’shurtthatIam,andnotsick,"shesighedatlast. "Well,I’mgladofthat." 

           "G-glad,Pollyanna?"askedheraunt,whowassittingbythebed. 

           "Yes. I’dsomuchratherhavebrokenlegslikeMr.Pendleton’sthanlife-long-invalidslikeMrs.Snow,youknow. Brokenlegsgetwell,andlifelong-invalidsdon’t." 

           MissPolly—whohadsaidnothingwhateveraboutbrokenlegs—gotsuddenlytoherfeetandwalkedtothelittledressingtableacrosstheroom. Shewaspickinguponeobjectafteranothernow,andputtingeachdown,inanaimlessfashionquiteunlikeherusualdecisiveness. Herfacewasnotaimless-lookingatall,however; itwaswhiteanddrawn. 

           OnthebedPollyannalayblinkingatthedancingbandofcolorsontheceiling,whichcamefromoneoftheprismsinthewindow. 

           "I’mgladitisn’tsmallpoxthatailsme,too,"shemurmuredcontentedly. "Thatwouldbeworsethanfreckles. AndI’mglad‘tisn’twhoopingcough—I’vehadthat,andit’shorrid—andI’mglad‘tisn’tappendicitisnormeasles,‘causethey’recatching—measlesare,Imean—andtheywouldn’tletyoustayhere."