"Jamie isn't loony! He is a very nice boy. And he knows a lot--books
and stories! Why, he can MAKE stories right out of his own head!
Besides, it isn't 'Lady Lancelot,'--it's 'Sir Lancelot.' If you knew
half as much as he does you'd know that, too!" she finished, with
flashing eyes.

Jimmy Pendleton flushed miserably and looked utterly wretched. Growing
more and more jealous moment by moment, still doggedly he held his
ground.

"Well, anyhow," he scoffed, "I don't think much of his name. 'Jamie'!
Humph!--sounds sissy! And I know somebody else that said so, too."

"Who was it?"

There was no answer.

"WHO WAS IT?" demanded Pollyanna, more peremptorily.

"Dad." The boy's voice was sullen.

"Your--dad?" repeated Pollyanna, in amazement. "Why, how could he know
Jamie?"

"He didn't. 'Twasn't about that Jamie. 'Twas about me." The boy still
spoke sullenly, with his eyes turned away. Yet there was a curious
softness in his voice that was always noticeable whenever he spoke of
his father.

"YOU!"