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90 Pollyanna clapped her hands.

"I know you don't—I know you don't, and that's why it's so perfectly lovely, and so—so wonderful! But listen. I'll tell you what the game is."

And she told him.

"Gee!" breathed the boy appreciatively, when she had finished. "Now what do you think of that!"

"And here you are, playing my game better than anybody I ever saw, and I don't even know your name yet, nor anything!" exclaimed Pollyanna, in almost awestruck tones. "But I want to;—I want to know everything."

"Pooh! there's nothing to know," rejoined the boy, with a shrug. "Besides, see, here's poor Sir Lancelot and all the rest, waiting for their dinner," he finished.

"Dear me, so they are," sighed Pollyanna, glancing impatiently at the fluttering and chattering creatures all about them. Recklessly she turned her bag upside down and scattered her supplies to the four winds. "There, now, that's done, and we can talk again," she rejoiced. "And there's such a lot I want to know. First, please, what is your name? I only know it isn't 'Sir James.

The boy smiled.

"No, it isn't; but that's what Jerry 'most always calls me. Mumsey and the rest call me 'Jamie.

Jamie! Pollyanna caught her breath and held it suspended. A wild hope had come to her eyes. It was followed almost instantly, however, by fearful doubt.