"Oh, how glad you must be," sighed Pollyanna, enviously. "Sometimes I
get to thinking, if only I could just SEE father once--but you do see
your father, don't you?"

"Not often. You see, I'm down--here."

"But you CAN see him--and I can't, mine. He's gone to be with mother
and the rest of us up in Heaven, and-- Have you got a mother, too--an
earth mother?"

"Y-yes." The girl stirred restlessly, and half moved as if to go.

"Oh, then you can see both of them," breathed Pollyanna, unutterable
longing in her face. "Oh, how glad you must be! For there just isn't
anybody, is there, that really CARES and notices quite so much as
fathers and mothers. You see I know, for I had a father until I was
eleven years old; but, for a mother, I had Ladies' Aiders for ever so
long, till Aunt Polly took me. Ladies' Aiders are lovely, but of
course they aren't like mothers, or even Aunt Pollys; and--"

On and on Pollyanna talked. Pollyanna was in her element now.
Pollyanna loved to talk. That there was anything strange or unwise or
even unconventional in this intimate telling of her thoughts and her
history to a total stranger on a Boston park bench did not once occur
to Pollyanna. To Pollyanna all men, women, and children were friends,
either known or unknown; and thus far she had found the unknown quite
as delightful as the known, for with them there was always the
excitement of mystery and adventure--while they were changing from the
unknown to the known.