mestead. 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.

Miss Polly had sat politely listening, but with a puzzled questioning in
her eyes. Only about half of what had been said, had she understood. She
was thinking now that she always had known that Milly Snow was "queer,"
but she had not supposed she was crazy. In no other way, however, could
she account for this incoherent, illogical, unmeaning rush of words.
When the pause came she filled it with a quiet:

"I don't think I quite understand, Milly. Just what is it that you want
me to tell my niece?"

"Yes, that's it; I want you to tell her," answered the girl, feverishly.
"Make her see what she's done for us. Of course she's SEEN some things,
because she's been there, and she's known mother is different; but I
want her to know HOW different she is--and me, too. I'm different. I've
been trying to play it--the game--a little."

Miss Polly frowned. She would have asked what Milly meant by this
"game," but there was no opportunity. Milly was rushing on again with
nervous volubility.

"You know nothing was ever right before--for mother. She was always
wanting 'em different. And, really, I don't know as one could blame her
much--under the circumstances. But now she lets me keep the shades up,
and she takes interest in things--how she looks, and her nightdress, and
all that. And she's actually begun to knit little things--reins and baby
blankets for fairs and hospitals. And she's so interested, and so GLAD
to think she can do it!--