“And so it’s hurt that I am, and not sick,” she sighed at last.  “Well, I’m glad of that.”

“G-glad, Pollyanna?” asked her aunt, who was sitting by the bed.

“Yes.  I’d so much rather have broken legs like Mr. Pendleton’s than life-long-invalids like Mrs. Snow, you know.  Broken legs get well, and lifelong-invalids don’t.”

Miss Polly—­who had said nothing whatever about broken legs—­got suddenly to her feet and walked to the little dressing table across the room.  She was picking up one object after another now, and putting each down, in an aimless fashion quite unlike her usual decisiveness.  Her face was not aimless-looking at all, however; it was white and drawn.

On the bed Pollyanna lay blinking at the dancing band of colors on the ceiling, which came from one of the prisms in the window.

“I’m glad it isn’t smallpox that ails me, too,” she murmured contentedly.  “That would be worse than freckles.  And I’m glad ’tisn’t whooping cough—­I’ve had that, and it’s horrid—­and I’m glad ’tisn’t appendicitis nor measles, ’cause they’re catching—­measles are, I mean—­and they wouldn’t let you stay here.”

“You seem to—­to be glad for a good many things, my dear,” faltered Aunt Polly, putting her hand to her throat as if her collar bound.

Pollyanna laughed softly.

“I am.  I’ve been thinking of ’em—­lots of ’em—­all the time I’ve been looking up at that rainbow.  I love rainbows.  I’m so glad Mr. Pendleton gave me those prisms!  I’m glad of some things I haven’t said yet.  I don’t know but I’m ’most glad I was hurt.”

“Pollyanna!”

Pollyanna laughed softly again.  She turned luminous eyes on her aunt.  “Well, you see, since I have been hurt, you’ve called me ‘dear’ lots of times—­and you didn’t before.  I love to be called ‘dear’—­by folks that belong to you, I mean.  Some of the Ladies’ Aiders did call me that; and of course that was pretty nice, but not so nice as if they had belonged to me, like you do.  Oh, Aunt Polly, I’m so glad you belong to me!”

Aunt Polly did not answer.  Her hand was at her throat again.  Her eyes were full of tears.  She had turned away and was hurrying from the room through the door by which the nurse had just entered.

It was that afternoon that Nancy ran out to Old Tom, who was cleaning harnesses in the barn.  Her eyes were wild.

“Mr. Tom, Mr. Tom, guess what’s happened,” she panted.  “You couldn’t guess in a thousand years—­you couldn’t, you couldn’t!”

“Then I cal’late I won’t try,” retorted the man, grimly, “specially as I hain’t got more’n ten ter live, anyhow, probably.  You’d better tell me first off, Nancy.”

“Well, listen, then.  Who do you s’pose is in the parlor now with the mistress?  Who, I say?”

Old Tom shook his head.

“There’s no tellin’,” he declared.

“Yes, there is.  I’m tellin’.  It’s—­John Pendleton!”