Pollyanna now, like Mrs. Snow, was knitting wonderful things out of bright colored worsteds that trailed their cheery lengths across the white spread, and made Pollyanna—­again like Mrs. Snow—­so glad she had her hands and arms, anyway.

Pollyanna saw people now, occasionally, and always there were the loving messages from those she could not see; and always they brought her something new to think about—­and Pollyanna needed new things to think about.

Once she had seen John Pendleton, and twice she had seen Jimmy Bean.  John Pendleton had told her what a fine boy Jimmy was getting to be, and how well he was doing.  Jimmy had told her what a first-rate home he had, and what bang-up “folks” Mr. Pendleton made; and both had said that it was all owing to her.

“Which makes me all the gladder, you know, that I have had my legs,” Pollyanna confided to her aunt afterwards.

The winter passed, and spring came.  The anxious watchers over Pollyanna’s condition could see little change wrought by the prescribed treatment.  There seemed every reason to believe, indeed, that Dr. Mead’s worst fears would be realized—­that Pollyanna would never walk again.

Beldingsville, of course, kept itself informed concerning Pollyanna; and of Beldingsville, one man in particular fumed and fretted himself into a fever of anxiety over the daily bulletins which he managed in some way to procure from the bed of suffering.  As the days passed, however, and the news came to be no better, but rather worse, something besides anxiety began to show in the man’s face:  despair, and a very dogged determination, each fighting for the mastery.  In the end, the dogged determination won; and it was then that Mr. John Pendleton, somewhat to his surprise, received one Saturday morning a call from Dr. Thomas Chilton.

“Pendleton,” began the doctor, abruptly, “I’ve come to you because you, better than any one else in town, know something of my relations with Miss Polly Harrington.”

John Pendleton was conscious that he must have started visibly—­he did know something of the affair between Polly Harrington and Thomas Chilton, but the matter had not been mentioned between them for fifteen years, or more.

“Yes,” he said, trying to make his voice sound concerned enough for sympathy, and not eager enough for curiosity.  In a moment he saw that he need not have worried, however:  the doctor was quite too intent on his errand to notice how that errand was received.

“Pendleton, I want to see that child.  I want to make an examination.  I must make an examination.”

“Well—­can’t you?”

“Can’t I!  Pendleton, you know very well I haven’t been inside that door for more than fifteen years.  You don’t know—­but I will tell you—­that the mistress of that house told me that the next time she asked me to enter it, I might take it that she was begging my pardon, and that all would be as before—­which meant that she’d marry me.  Perhaps you see her summoning me now—­but I don’t!”