“I’m Nancy, sir,” she said respectfully, in response to the surprised questioning of his eyes, when he came into the room.  “Miss Harrington sent me to tell you about—­Miss Pollyanna.”

“Well?”

In spite of the curt terseness of the word, Nancy quite understood the anxiety that lay behind that short “well?”

“It ain’t well, Mr. Pendleton,” she choked.

“You don’t mean—­” He paused, and she bowed her head miserably.

“Yes, sir.  He says—­she can’t walk again—­never.”

For a moment there was absolute silence in the room; then the man spoke, in a voice shaken with emotion.

“Poor—­little—­girl!  Poor—­little—­girl!”

Nancy glanced at him, but dropped her eyes at once.  She had not supposed that sour, cross, stern John Pendleton could look like that.  In a moment he spoke again, still in the low, unsteady voice.

“It seems cruel—­never to dance in the sunshine again!  My little prism girl!”

There was another silence; then, abruptly, the man asked: 

“She herself doesn’t know yet—­of course—­does she?”

“But she does, sir.” sobbed Nancy, “an’ that’s what makes it all the harder.  She found out—­drat that cat!  I begs yer pardon,” apologized the girl, hurriedly.  “It’s only that the cat pushed open the door an’ Miss Pollyanna overheard ’em talkin’.  She found out—­that way.”

“Poor—­little—­girl!” sighed the man again.

“Yes, sir.  You’d say so, sir, if you could see her,” choked Nancy.  “I hain’t seen her but twice since she knew about it, an’ it done me up both times.  Ye see it’s all so fresh an’ new to her, an’ she keeps thinkin’ all the time of new things she can’t do—­now.  It worries her, too, ’cause she can’t seem ter be glad—­maybe you don’t know about her game, though,” broke off Nancy, apologetically.

“The ’glad game’?” asked the man.  “Oh, yes; she told me of that.”

“Oh, she did!  Well, I guess she has told it generally ter most folks.  But ye see, now she—­she can’t play it herself, an’ it worries her.  She says she can’t think of a thing—­not a thing about this not walkin’ again, ter be glad about.”

“Well, why should she?” retorted the man, almost savagely.

Nancy shifted her feet uneasily.

“That’s the way I felt, too—­till I happened ter think—­it would be easier if she could find somethin’, ye know.  So I tried to—­to remind her.”

“To remind her!  Of what?” John Pendleton’s voice was still angrily impatient.

“Of—­of how she told others ter play it Mis’ Snow, and the rest, ye know—­and what she said for them ter do.  But the poor little lamb just cries, an’ says it don’t seem the same, somehow.  She says it’s easy ter tell lifelong invalids how ter be glad, but ’tain’t the same thing when you’re the lifelong invalid yerself, an’ have ter try ter do it.  She says she’s told herself over an’ over again how glad she is that other folks ain’t like her; but that all the time she’s sayin’ it, she ain’t really thinkin’ of anythin’ only how she can’t ever walk again.”