They were a merry party – the six of them – and a congenial one. There seemed to be no end to the new delights that came with every new day, not the least of which was the new charm of companionship that seemed to be a part of this new life they were living.
As Jamie said one night, when they were all sitting about the fire:
“You see, we seem to know each other so much better up here in the woods – better in a week than we would in a year in town.”
“I know it. I wonder why,” murmured Mrs Carew, her eyes dreamily following the leaping blaze.
“I think it’s something in the air,” sighed Pollyanna, happily. “There’s something about the sky and the woods and the lake so – so – well, there just is; that’s all.”
“I think you mean, because the world is shut out,” cried Sadie Dean, with a curious little break in her voice. (Sadie had not joined in the laugh that followed Pollyanna’s limping conclusion.) “Up here everything is so real and true that we, too, can be our real true selves – not what the world says we are because we are rich, or poor, or great, or humble; but what we really are, ourselves.”
“Ho!” scoffed Jimmy airily. “All that sounds very fine; but the real common-sense reason is because we don’t have any Mrs Tom and Dick and Harry sitting on their side-porches and commenting on every time we stir, and wondering among themselves where we are going, why we are going there, and how long we’re intending to stay!”
“Oh, Jimmy, how you do take the poetry out of things,” reproached Pollyanna, laughingly.
“But that’s my business,” flashed Jimmy. “How do you suppose I’m going to build dams and bridges if I don’t see something besides poetry in the waterfall?”
“You can’t, Pendleton! And it’s the bridge – that counts – every time,” declared Jamie, in a voice that brought a sudden hush to the group about the fire. It was for only a moment, however, for almost at once Sadie Dean broke the silence with a gay:
“Pooh! I’d rather have the waterfall every time, without any bridge around – to spoil the view!”
Everybody laughed – and it was as if a tension somewhere snapped. Then
Mrs Carew rose to her feet.
“Come, come, children, your stern chaperon says it’s bedtime!” And with a merry chorus of good-nights the party broke up.
And so the days passed. To Pollyanna they were wonderful days, and still the most wonderful part was the charm of close companionship – a companionship that, while differing as to details with each one, was yet delightful with all.
With Sadie Dean she talked of the new Home, and of what a marvelous work Mrs Carew was doing. They talked, too, of the old days when Sadie was selling bows behind the counter, and of what Mrs Carew had done for her. Pollyanna heard, also, something of the old father and mother “back home”, and of the joy that Sadie, in her new position, had been able to bring into their lives.
“And after all, it’s really you that began it, you know,” she said one day to Pollyanna. But Pollyanna only shook her head at this with an emphatic:
“Nonsense! It was all Mrs Carew.”
With Mrs Carew herself Pollyanna talked also of the Home, and of her plans for the girls. And once, in the hush of a twilight walk, Mrs Carew spoke of herself and of her changed outlook on life. And she, like Sadie Dean, said brokenly, “After all, it’s really you that began it, Pollyanna.” But Pollyanna, as in Sadie Dean’s case, would have none of this; and she began to talk of Jamie, and of what he had done.
“Jamie’s a dear,” Mrs Carew answered affectionately. “And I love him like an own son. He couldn’t be dearer to me if he were really my sister’s boy.”
“Then you don’t think he is?”
“I don’t know. We’ve never learned anything conclusive. Sometimes I’m sure he is. Then again I doubt it. I think he really believes he is – bless his heart! At all events, one thing is sure: he has good blood in him from somewhere. Jamie’s no ordinary waif of the streets, you know, with his talents; and the wonderful way he has responded to teaching and training proves it.”
“Of course,” nodded Pollyanna. “And as long as you love him so well, it doesn’t really matter, anyway, does it, whether he’s the real Jamie or not?”
Mrs Carew hesitated. Into her eyes crept the old somberness of heartache.
“Not so far as he is concerned,” she sighed, at last. “It’s only that sometimes I get to thinking: if he isn’t our Jamie, where is – Jamie Kent? Is he well? Is he happy? Has he anyone to love him? When I get to thinking like that, Pollyanna, I’m nearly wild. I’d give – everything I have in the world, it seems to me, to really know that this boy is Jamie Kent.”