Pollyanna Grows Up Eleanor H. Porter (booksvooks .TXT) 📖

airily. “All that sounds very fine; but the real commonsense reason is because we don’t have any Mrs. Tom and Dick and Harry sitting on their side porches and commenting on every time we stir, and wondering among themselves where we are going, why we are going there, and how long we’re intending to stay!”

“Oh, Jimmy, how you do take the poetry out of things,” reproached Pollyanna, laughingly.

“But that’s my business,” flashed Jimmy. “How do you suppose I’m going to build dams and bridges if I don’t see something besides poetry in the waterfall?”

“You can’t, Pendleton! And it’s the bridge⁠—that counts⁠—every time,” declared Jamie in a voice that brought a sudden hush to the group about the fire. It was for only a moment, however, for almost at once Sadie Dean broke the silence with a gay:

“Pooh! I’d rather have the waterfall every time, without any bridge around⁠—to spoil the view!”

Everybody laughed⁠—and it was as if a tension somewhere snapped. Then Mrs. Carew rose to her feet.

“Come, come, children, your stern chaperon says it’s bedtime!” And with a merry chorus of good nights the party broke up.

And so the days passed. To Pollyanna they were wonderful days, and still the most wonderful part was the charm of close companionship⁠—a companionship that, while differing as to details with each one, was yet delightful with all.

With Sadie Dean she talked of the new Home, and of what a marvelous work Mrs. Carew was doing. They talked, too, of the old days when Sadie was selling bows behind the counter, and of what Mrs. Carew had done for her. Pollyanna heard, also, something of the old father and mother “back home,” and of the joy that Sadie, in her new position, had been able to bring into their lives.

“And after all it’s really you that began it, you know,” she said one day to Pollyanna. But Pollyanna only shook her head at this with an emphatic:

“Nonsense! It was all Mrs. Carew.”

With Mrs. Carew herself Pollyanna talked also of the Home, and of her plans for the girls. And once, in the hush of a twilight walk, Mrs. Carew spoke of herself and of her changed outlook on life. And she, like Sadie Dean, said brokenly: “After all, it’s really you that began it, Pollyanna.” But Pollyanna, as in Sadie Dean’s case, would have none of this; and she began to talk of Jamie, and of what he had done.

“Jamie’s a dear,” Mrs. Carew answered affectionately. “And I love him like an own son. He couldn’t be dearer to me if he were really my sister’s boy.”

“Then you don’t think he is?”

“I don’t know. We’ve never learned anything conclusive. Sometimes I’m sure he is. Then again I doubt it. I think he really believes he is⁠—bless his heart! At all events, one thing is sure: he has good blood in him from somewhere. Jamie’s no ordinary waif of the streets, you know, with his talents; and the wonderful way he has responded to teaching and training proves it.”

“Of course,” nodded Pollyanna. “And as long as you love him so well, it doesn’t really matter, anyway, does it, whether he’s the real Jamie or not?”

Mrs. Carew hesitated. Into her eyes crept the old somberness of heartache.

“Not so far as he is concerned,” she sighed, at last. “It’s only that sometimes I get to thinking: if he isn’t our Jamie, where is⁠—Jamie Kent? Is he well? Is he happy? Has he anyone to love him? When I get to thinking like that, Pollyanna, I’m nearly wild. I’d give⁠—everything I have in the world, it seems to me, to really know that this boy is Jamie Kent.”

Pollyanna used to think of this conversation sometimes, in her after talks with Jamie. Jamie was so sure of himself.

“It’s just somehow that I feel it’s so,” he said once to Pollyanna. “I believe I am Jamie Kent. I’ve believed it quite a while. I’m afraid I’ve believed it so long now, that⁠—that I just couldn’t bear it, to find out I wasn’t he. Mrs. Carew has done so much for me; just think if, after all, I were only a stranger!”

“But she⁠—loves you, Jamie.”

“I know she does⁠—and that would only hurt all the more⁠—don’t you see?⁠—because it would be hurting her. She wants me to be the real Jamie. I know she does. Now if I could only do something for her⁠—make her proud of me in some way! If I could only do something to support myself, even, like a man! But what can I do, with⁠—these?” He spoke bitterly, and laid his hand on the crutches at his side.

Pollyanna was shocked and distressed. It was the first time she had heard Jamie speak of his infirmity since the old boyhood days. Frantically she cast about in her mind for just the right thing to say; but before she had even thought of anything, Jamie’s face had undergone a complete change.

“But, there, forget it! I didn’t mean to say it,” he cried gaily. “And ’twas rank heresy to the game, wasn’t it? I’m sure I’m glad I’ve got the crutches. They’re a whole lot nicer than the wheel chair!”

“And the Jolly Book⁠—do you keep it now?” asked Pollyanna, in a voice that trembled a little.

“Sure! I’ve got a whole library of jolly books now,” he retorted. “They’re all in leather, dark red, except the first one. That is the same little old notebook that Jerry gave me.”

“Jerry! And I’ve been meaning all the time to ask for him,” cried Pollyanna. “Where is he?”

“In Boston; and his vocabulary is just as picturesque as ever, only he has to tone it down at times. Jerry’s still in the newspaper business⁠—but he’s getting the news, not selling it. Reporting, you know. I have been able to help him and mumsey. And don’t you suppose I was glad? Mumsey’s in a sanatorium for her rheumatism.”

“And is she better?”

“Very much. She’s coming out pretty soon, and going to housekeeping with Jerry. Jerry’s been making up some of his lost schooling during these past few