One by one the short winter days came and went – but they were not short to Pollyanna. They were long, and sometimes full of pain. Very resolutely, these days, however, Pollyanna was turning a cheerful face toward whatever came. Was she not specially bound to play the game, now that Aunt Polly was playing it, too? And Aunt Polly found so many things to be glad about! It was Aunt Polly, too, who discovered the story one day about the two poor little waifs in a snow-storm who found a blown-down door to crawl under, and who wondered what poor folks did that didn’t have any door! And it was Aunt Polly who brought home the other story that she had heard about the poor old lady who had only two teeth, but who was so glad that those two teeth “hit”!
Pollyanna now, like Mrs Snow, was knitting wonderful things out of bright-coloured worsteds that trailed their cheery lengths across the white spread, and made Pollyanna – again like Mrs Snow – so glad she had her hands and arms, anyway.
Pollyanna saw people now, occasionally, and always there were the loving messages from those she could not see; and always they brought her something new to think about – and Pollyanna needed new things to think about.
Once she had seen John Pendleton, and twice she had seen Jimmy Bean. John Pendleton had told her what a fine boy Jimmy was getting to be, and how well he was doing. Jimmy had told her what a first-rate home he had, and what bang-up “folks” Mr Pendleton made; and both had said that it was all owing to her.
“Which makes me all the gladder, you know, that I have had my legs,” Pollyanna confided to her aunt afterwards.
The winter passed, and spring came. The anxious watchers over Pollyanna’s condition could see little change wrought by the prescribed treatment. There seemed every reason to believe, indeed, that Dr Mead’s worst fears would be realised – that Pollyanna would never walk again.
Beldingsville, of course, kept itself informed concerning Pollyanna; and of Beldingsville, one man in particular fumed and fretted himself into a fever of anxiety over the daily bulletins which he managed in some way to procure from the bed of suffering. As the days passed, however, and the news came to be no better, but rather worse, something besides anxiety began to show in the man’s face: despair, and a very dogged determination, each fighting for the mastery. In the end, the dogged determination won; and it was then that Mr John Pendleton, somewhat to his surprise, received one Saturday morning a call from Dr Thomas Chilton.
“Pendleton,” began the doctor, abruptly, “I’ve come to you because you, better than anyone else in town, know something of my relations with Miss Polly Harrington.”