“I wish they were up here—­all those ladies who talked so loud,” sighed Pollyanna to herself, raising her eyes to the patches of vivid blue between the sunlit green of the tree-tops.  “Anyhow, if they were up here, I just reckon they’d change and take Jimmy Bean for their little boy, all right,” she finished, secure in her conviction, but unable to give a reason for it, even to herself.

Suddenly Pollyanna lifted her head and listened.  A dog had barked some distance ahead.  A moment later he came dashing toward her, still barking.

“Hullo, doggie—­hullo!” Pollyanna snapped her fingers at the dog and looked expectantly down the path.  She had seen the dog once before, she was sure.  He had been then with the Man, Mr. John Pendleton.  She was looking now, hoping to see him.  For some minutes she watched eagerly, but he did not appear.  Then she turned her attention toward the dog.

The dog, as even Pollyanna could see, was acting strangely.  He was still barking—­giving little short, sharp yelps, as if of alarm.  He was running back and forth, too, in the path ahead.  Soon they reached a side path, and down this the little dog fairly flew, only to come back at once, whining and barking.

“Ho!  That isn’t the way home,” laughed Pollyanna, still keeping to the main path.

The little dog seemed frantic now.  Back and forth, back and forth, between Pollyanna and the side path he vibrated, barking and whining pitifully.  Every quiver of his little brown body, and every glance from his beseeching brown eyes were eloquent with appeal—­so eloquent that at last Pollyanna understood, turned, and followed him.

Straight ahead, now, the little dog dashed madly; and it was not long before Pollyanna came upon the reason for it all:  a man lying motionless at the foot of a steep, overhanging mass of rock a few yards from the side path.

A twig cracked sharply under Pollyanna’s foot, and the man turned his head.  With a cry of dismay Pollyanna ran to his side.

“Mr. Pendleton!  Oh, are you hurt?”

“Hurt?  Oh, no!  I’m just taking a siesta in the sunshine,” snapped the man irritably.  “See here, how much do you know?  What can you do?  Have you got any sense?”

Pollyanna caught her breath with a little gasp, but—­as was her habit—­she answered the questions literally, one by one.

“Why, Mr. Pendleton, I—­I don’t know so very much, and I can’t do a great many things; but most of the Ladies’ Aiders, except Mrs. Rawson, said I had real good sense.  I heard ’em say so one day—­they didn’t know I heard, though.”

The man smiled grimly.

“There, there, child, I beg your pardon, I’m sure; it’s only this confounded leg of mine.  Now listen.”  He paused, and with some difficulty reached his hand into his trousers pocket and brought out a bunch of keys, singling out one between his thumb and forefinger.  “Straight through the path there, about five minutes’ walk, is my house.  This key will admit you to the side door under the porte-cochere.  Do you know what a porte-cochere is?”