Page 232 - pollyanna

‘Chilton, what was the quarrel?’ demanded Pendleton.
The doctor made an impatient gesture, and got to his
feet.
‘What was it? What’s any lovers’ quarrel after it’s over?’
he snarled, pacing the room angrily. ‘A silly wrangle over
the size of the moon or the depth of a river, maybe—it
might as well be, so far as its having any real significance
compared to the years of misery that follow them! Never
mind the quarrel! So far as I am concerned, I am willing to
say there was no quarrel. Pendleton, I must see that child. It
may mean life or death. It will mean—I honestly believe—
nine chances out of ten that Pollyanna Whittier will walk
again!’
The words were spoken clearly, impressively; and they
were spoken just as the one who uttered them had almost
reached the open window near John Pendleton’s chair. Thus
it happened that very distinctly they reached the ears of a
small boy kneeling beneath the window on the ground out-
side.
Jimmy Bean, at his Saturday morning task of pulling up
the first little green weeds of the flowerbeds, sat up with
ears and eyes wide open.
‘Walk! Pollyanna!’ John Pendleton was saying. ‘What do
you mean?’
I mean that from what I can hear and learn—a mile
from her bedside—that her case is very much like one that
a college friend of mine has just helped. For years he’s been
making this sort of thing a special study. I’ve kept in touch
with him, and studied, too, in a way. And from what I hear—

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