Поллианна

           "Yes,Iamsittingup; andIhaven’tbrokenanything—thatdoctorscanmend." Thelastwordswereverylow,butPollyannaheardthem. Aswiftchangecrossedherface. Hereyesglowedwithtendersympathy. 

           "Iknowwhatyoumean—somethingplaguesyou. Fatherusedtofeellikethat,lotsoftimes. Ireckonministersdo—mostgenerally. Youseethere’ssuchalotdependson‘em,somehow." 

           TheRev.PaulFordturnedalittlewonderingly. 

           "WasYOURfatheraminister,Pollyanna?" 

           "Yes,sir. Didn’tyouknow? Isupposedeverybodyknewthat. HemarriedAuntPolly’ssister,andshewasmymother." 

           "Oh,Iunderstand. But,yousee,Ihaven’tbeenheremanyyears,soIdon’tknowallthefamilyhistories." 

           "Yes,sir—Imean,no,sir,"smiledPollyanna. 

           Therewasalongpause. Theminister,stillsittingatthefootofthetree,appearedtohaveforgottenPollyanna’spresence. Hehadpulledsomepapersfromhispocketandunfoldedthem; buthewasnotlookingatthem. Hewasgazing,instead,ataleafonthegroundalittledistanceaway—anditwasnotevenaprettyleaf. Itwasbrownanddead. Pollyanna,lookingathim,feltvaguelysorryforhim. 

           "It—it’saniceday,"shebeganhopefully. 

           Foramomenttherewasnoanswer; thentheministerlookedupwithastart. 

           "What? Oh! —yes,itisaveryniceday." 

           "And‘tisn’tcoldatall,either,evenif‘tisOctober,"observedPollyanna,stillmorehopefully. "Mr.Pendletonhadafire,buthesaidhedidn’tneedit. Itwasjusttolookat. Iliketolookatfires,don’tyou?"