Pollyanna, fearful that her aunt might ask further embarrassing questions, hastened to lead the conversation away from the Pendleton house and its master.

“Dr. Chilton says so, too—­that it takes a woman’s hand and heart, or a child’s presence, to make a home, you know,” she remarked.

Miss Polly turned with a start.

“Dr. Chilton!  How do you know—­that?”

“He told me so.  ’Twas when he said he lived in just rooms, you know—­not a home.”

Miss Polly did not answer.  Her eyes were out the window.

“So I asked him why he didn’t get ’em.—­a woman’s hand and heart, and have a home.”

“Pollyanna!” Miss Polly had turned sharply.  Her cheeks showed a sudden color.

“Well, I did.  He looked so—­so sorrowful.”

“What did he—­say?” Miss Polly asked the question as if in spite of some force within her that was urging her not to ask it.

“He didn’t say anything for a minute; then he said very low that you couldn’t always get ’em for the asking.”

There was a brief silence.  Miss Polly’s eyes had turned again to the window.  Her cheeks were still unnaturally pink.

Pollyanna sighed.

“He wants one, anyhow, I know, and I wish he could have one.”

“Why, Pollyanna, how do you know?”

“Because, afterwards, on another day, he said something else.  He said that low, too, but I heard him.  He said that he’d give all the world if he did have one woman’s hand and heart.  Why, Aunt Polly, what’s the matter?” Aunt Polly had risen hurriedly and gone to the window.

“Nothing, dear.  I was changing the position of this prism,” said Aunt Polly, whose whole face now was aflame.

CHAPTER XXVIII.  THE GAME AND ITS PLAYERS

It was not long after John Pendleton’s second visit that Milly Snow called one afternoon.  Milly Snow had never before been to the Harrington homestead.  She blushed and looked very embarrassed when Miss Polly entered the room.

“I—­I came to inquire for the little girl,” she stammered.

“You are very kind.  She is about the same.  How is your mother?” rejoined Miss Polly, wearily.

“That is what I came to tell you—­that is, to ask you to tell Miss Pollyanna,” hurried on the girl, breathlessly and incoherently.  “We think it’s—­so awful—­so perfectly awful that the little thing can’t ever walk again; and after all she’s done for us, too—­for mother, you know, teaching her to play the game, and all that.  And when we heard how now she couldn’t play it herself—­poor little dear!  I’m sure I don’t see how she can, either, in her condition!—­but when we remembered all the things she’d said to us, we thought if she could only know what she had done for us, that it would help, you know, in her own case, about the game, because she could be glad—­that is, a little glad—­” Milly stopped helplessly, and seemed to be waiting for Miss Polly to speak.