“But I didn’t even know you’d went,” cried Nancy, tucking the little girl’s hand under her arm and hurrying her down the hill.  “I didn’t see you go, and nobody didn’t.  I guess you flew right up through the roof; I do, I do.”

Pollyanna skipped gleefully.

“I did, ’most—­only I flew down instead of up.  I came down the tree.”

Nancy stopped short.

“You did—­what?”

“Came down the tree, outside my window.”

“My stars and stockings!” gasped Nancy, hurrying on again.  “I’d like ter know what yer aunt would say ter that!”

“Would you?  Well, I’ll tell her, then, so you can find out,” promised the little girl, cheerfully.

“Mercy!” gasped Nancy.  “No—­no!”

“Why, you don’t mean she’d care!” cried Pollyanna, plainly disturbed.

“No—­er—­yes—­well, never mind.  I—­I ain’t so very particular about knowin’ what she’d say, truly,” stammered Nancy, determined to keep one scolding from Pollyanna, if nothing more.  “But, say, we better hurry.  I’ve got ter get them dishes done, ye know.”

“I’ll help,” promised Pollyanna, promptly.

“Oh, Miss Pollyanna!” demurred Nancy.

For a moment there was silence.  The sky was darkening fast.  Pollyanna took a firmer hold of her friend’s arm.

“I reckon I’m glad, after all, that you did get scared—­a little, ’cause then you came after me,” she shivered.

“Poor little lamb!  And you must be hungry, too.  I—­I’m afraid you’ll have ter have bread and milk in the kitchen with me.  Yer aunt didn’t like it—­because you didn’t come down ter supper, ye know.”

“But I couldn’t.  I was up here.”

“Yes; but—­she didn’t know that, you see!” observed Nancy, dryly, stifling a chuckle.  “I’m sorry about the bread and milk; I am, I am.”

“Oh, I’m not.  I’m glad.”

“Glad!  Why?”

“Why, I like bread and milk, and I’d like to eat with you.  I don’t see any trouble about being glad about that.”

“You don’t seem ter see any trouble bein’ glad about everythin’,” retorted Nancy, choking a little over her remembrance of Pollyanna’s brave attempts to like the bare little attic room.

Pollyanna laughed softly.

“Well, that’s the game, you know, anyway.”

“The—­game?”

“Yes; the ‘just being glad’ game.”

“Whatever in the world are you talkin’ about?”

“Why, it’s a game.  Father told it to me, and it’s lovely,” rejoined Pollyanna.  “We’ve played it always, ever since I was a little, little girl.  I told the Ladies’ Aid, and they played it—­some of them.”

“What is it?  I ain’t much on games, though.”

Pollyanna laughed again, but she sighed, too; and in the gathering twilight her face looked thin and wistful.

“Why, we began it on some crutches that came in a missionary barrel.”

“Crutches!”