Something of the same thought must have been in the mind of John Pendleton some time later that same morning, for, from the veranda of his big gray house on Pendleton Hill, John Pendleton was watching the rapid approach of that same horse and rider; and in his eyes was an expression very like the one that had been in Mrs Nancy Durgin’s. On his lips, too, was an admiring “Jove! what a handsome pair!” as the two dashed by on the way to the stable.
Five minutes later the youth came around the corner of the house and slowly ascended the veranda steps.
“Well, my boy, is it true? Are they coming?” asked the man, with visible eagerness.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” The young fellow dropped himself into a chair.
At the crisp terseness of the answer, John Pendleton frowned. He threw a quick look into the young man’s face. For a moment he hesitated; then, a little abruptly, he asked:
“Why, son, what’s the matter?”
“Matter? Nothing, sir.”
“Nonsense! I know better. You left here an hour ago so eager to be off that wild horses could not have held you. Now you sit humped up in that chair and look as if wild horses couldn’t drag you out of it. If I didn’t know better I’d think you weren’t glad that our friends are coming.”
He paused, evidently for a reply. But he did not get it.
“Why, Jim, aren’t you glad they’re coming?”
The young fellow laughed and stirred restlessly.
“Why, yes, of course.”
“Humph! You act like it.”
The youth laughed again. A boyish red flamed into his face.
“Well, it’s only that I was thinking – of Pollyanna.”
“Pollyanna! Why, man alive, you’ve done nothing but prattle of Pollyanna ever since you came home from Boston and found she was expected. I thought you were dying to see Pollyanna.”
The other leaned forward with curious intentness.
“That’s exactly it! See? You said it a minute ago. It’s just as if yesterday wild horses couldn’t keep me from seeing Pollyanna; and now, today when I know she’s coming – they couldn’t drag me to see her.”
“Why, Jim!”
At the shocked incredulity on John Pendleton’s face, the younger man fell back in his chair with an embarrassed laugh.
“Yes, I know. It sounds nutty, and I don’t expect I can make you understand. But, somehow, I don’t think – I ever wanted Pollyanna to grow up. She was such a dear, just as she was. I like to think of her as I saw her last, her earnest, freckled little face, her yellow pigtails, her tearful: ‘Oh, yes, I’m glad I’m going; but I think I shall be a little gladder when I come back.’ That’s the last time I saw her. You know we were in Egypt that time she was here four years ago.”
“I know. I see exactly what you mean, too. I think I felt the same way – till I saw her last winter in Rome.”
The other turned eagerly.
“Sure enough, you have seen her! Tell me about her.”
A shrewd twinkle came into John Pendleton’s eyes.
“Oh, but I thought you didn’t want to know Pollyanna – grown up.”
With a grimace the young fellow tossed this aside.
“Is she pretty?”
“Oh, ye young men!” shrugged John Pendleton, in mock despair. “Always the first question – ‘Is she pretty?’”
“Well, is she?” insisted the youth.
“I’ll let you judge for yourself. If you – On second thoughts, though, I believe I won’t. You might be too disappointed. Pollyanna isn’t pretty, so far as regular features, curls, and dimples go. In fact, to my certain knowledge the great cross in Pollyanna’s life thus far is that she is so sure she isn’t pretty. Long ago she told me that black curls were one of the things she was going to have when she got to heaven; and last year in Rome she said something else. It wasn’t much, perhaps, so far as words went, but I detected the longing beneath. She said she did wish that sometime some one would write a novel with a heroine who had straight hair and a freckle on her nose; but that she supposed she ought to be glad girls in books didn’t have to have them.”
“That sounds like the old Pollyanna.”
“Oh, you’ll still find her – Pollyanna,” smiled the man, quizzically. “Besides, I think she’s pretty. Her eyes are lovely. She is the picture of health. She carries herself with all the joyous springiness of youth, and her whole face lights up so wonderfully when she talks that you quite forget whether her features are regular or not.”