Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter — Read

As the warm August days passed, Pollyanna went very frequently to the great house on Pendleton Hill. She did not feel, however, that her visits were really a success. Not but that the man seemed to want her there -- he sent for her, indeed, frequently; but that when she was there, he seemed scarcely any the happier for her presence -- at least, so Pollyanna thought.

He talked to her, it was true, and he showed her many strange and beautiful things -- books, pictures, and curios. But he still fretted audibly over his own helplessness, and he chafed visibly under the rules and "regulatings" of the unwelcome members of his household. He did, indeed, seem to like to hear Pollyanna talk, however, and Pollyanna talked, Pollyanna liked to talk -- but she was never sure that she would not look up and find him lying back on his pillow with that white, hurt look that always pained her; and she was never sure which -- if any -- of her words had brought it there. As for telling him the "glad game," and trying to get him to play it -- Pollyanna had never seen the time yet when she thought he would care to hear about it. She had twice tried to tell him; but neither time had she got beyond the beginning of what her father had said -- John Pendleton had on each occasion turned the conversation abruptly to another subject.