clouded joy. "How perfectly lovely! I'm so glad, glad, glad!"

A long hour later Pollyanna sent Jimmy a letter. It was confused and incoherent—a series of half-completed, illogical, but shyly joyous sentences, out of which Jimmy gathered much: a little from what was written; more from what was left unwritten. After all, did he really need more than this?

"Oh, Jimmy, he doesn't love me a bit. It's some one else. I mustn't tell you who it is—but her name isn't Pollyanna."

Jimmy had just time to catch the seven o'clock train for Beldingsville—and he caught it.