“Glad of what?”

“Just glad!  That’s the game.”

Miss Polly actually stamped her foot.

“There you go like all the rest, Nancy.  What game?”

Nancy lifted her chin.  She faced her mistress and looked her squarely in the eye.

“I’ll tell ye, ma’am.  It’s a game Miss Pollyanna’s father learned her ter play.  She got a pair of crutches once in a missionary barrel when she was wantin’ a doll; an’ she cried, of course, like any child would.  It seems ’twas then her father told her that there wasn’t ever anythin’ but what there was somethin’ about it that you could be glad about; an’ that she could be glad about them crutches.”

“Glad for—­crutches!” Miss Polly choked back a sob—­she was thinking of the helpless little legs on the bed up-stairs.

“Yes’m.  That’s what I said, an’ Miss Pollyanna said that’s what she said, too.  But he told her she could be glad—­’cause she didn’t need ’em.”

“Oh-h!” cried Miss Polly.

“And after that she said he made a regular game of it—­findin’ somethin’ in everythin’ ter be glad about.  An’ she said ye could do it, too, and that ye didn’t seem ter mind not havin’ the doll so much, ‘cause ye was so glad ye didn’t need the crutches.  An’ they called it the ‘jest bein’ glad’ game.  That’s the game, ma’am.  She’s played it ever since.”

“But, how—­how—­” Miss Polly came to a helpless pause.

“An’ you’d be surprised ter find how cute it works, ma’am, too,” maintained Nancy, with almost the eagerness of Pollyanna herself.  “I wish I could tell ye what a lot she’s done for mother an’ the folks out home.  She’s been ter see ’em, ye know, twice, with me.  She’s made me glad, too, on such a lot o’ things—­little things, an’ big things; an’ it’s made ’em so much easier.  For instance, I don’t mind ‘Nancy’ for a name half as much since she told me I could be glad ’twa’n’t ‘Hephzibah.’  An’ there’s Monday mornin’s, too, that I used ter hate so.  She’s actually made me glad for Monday mornin’s.”

“Glad—­for Monday mornings!”

Nancy laughed.

“I know it does sound nutty, ma’am.  But let me tell ye.  That blessed lamb found out I hated Monday mornin’s somethin’ awful; an’ what does she up an’ tell me one day but this:  ’Well, anyhow, Nancy, I should think you could be gladder on Monday mornin’ than on any other day in the week, because ’twould be a whole week before you’d have another one!’ An’ I’m blest if I hain’t thought of it ev’ry Monday mornin’ since—­an’ it has helped, ma’am.  It made me laugh, anyhow, ev’ry time I thought of it; an’ laughin’ helps, ye know—­it does, it does!”

“But why hasn’t—­she told me—­the game?” faltered Miss Polly.  “Why has she made such a mystery of it, when I asked her?”

Nancy hesitated.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, you told her not ter speak of—­her father; so she couldn’t tell ye.  ’Twas her father’s game, ye see.”