de
with the quieting powder ready.

"There, there, dear, just take this," she soothed; "and by and by we'll
be more rested, and we'll see what can be done then. Things aren't half
as bad as they seem, dear, lots of times, you know."

Obediently Pollyanna took the medicine, and sipped the water from the
glass in Miss Hunt's hand.

"I know; that sounds like things father used to say," faltered
Pollyanna, blinking off the tears. "He said there was always something
about everything that might be worse; but I reckon he'd never just heard
he couldn't ever walk again. I don't see how there CAN be anything about
that, that could be worse--do you?"

Miss Hunt did not reply. She could not trust herself to speak just then.

CHAPTER XXVII. TWO VISITS

It was Nancy who was sent to tell Mr. John Pendleton of Dr. Mead's
verdict. Miss Polly had remembered her promise to let him have direct
information from the house. To go herself, or to write a letter, she
felt to be almost equally out of the question. It occurred to her then
to send Nancy.

There had been a time when Nancy would have rejoiced greatly at this
extraordinary opportunity to see something of the House of Mystery and
its master. But to-day her heart was too heavy to, rejoice at anything.
She scarcely even looked about her at all, indeed, during the few
minutes, she waited for Mr. John Pendleton to appear.

"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 wh