Pollyanna. Элинор Портер

to meet me; because now I’ve got her still coming, and I’ve got you besides.”

      Nancy flushed. Timothy turned to her with a quizzical smile.

      “I call that a pretty slick compliment,” he said. “Why don’t you thank the little lady?”

      “I—I was thinkin’ about – Miss Polly,” faltered Nancy.

      Pollyanna sighed contentedly.

      “I was, too. I’m so interested in her. You know she’s all the aunt I’ve got, and I didn’t know I had her for ever so long. Then father told me. He said she lived in a lovely great big house ’way on top of a hill.”

      “She does. You can see it now,” said Nancy.

      “It’s that big white one with the green blinds, ’way ahead.”

      “Oh, how pretty! – and what a lot of trees and grass all around it! I never saw such a lot of green grass, seems so, all at once. Is my Aunt Polly rich, Nancy?”

      “Yes, Miss.”

      “I’m so glad. It must be perfectly lovely to have lots of money. I never knew any one that did have, only the Whites – they’re some rich. They have carpets in every room and ice-cream Sundays. Does Aunt Polly have ice-cream Sundays?”

      Nancy shook her head. Her lips twitched. She threw a merry look into Timothy’s eyes.

      “No, Miss. Your aunt don’t like ice-cream, I guess; leastways I never saw it on her table.”

      Pollyanna’s face fell.

      “Oh, doesn’t she? I’m so sorry! I don’t see how she can help liking ice-cream. But – anyhow, I can be kinder glad about that, ’cause the ice-cream you don’t eat can’t make your stomach ache like Mrs. White’s did – that is, I ate hers, you know, lots of it. Maybe Aunt Polly has got the carpets, though.”

      “Yes, she’s got the carpets.”

      “In every room?”

      “Well, in almost every room,” answered Nancy, frowning suddenly at the thought of that bare little attic room where there was no carpet.

      “Oh, I’m so glad,” exulted Pollyanna. “I love carpets. We didn’t have any, only two little rugs that came in a missionary barrel, and one of those had ink spots on it. Mrs. White had pictures, too, perfectly beautiful ones of roses and little girls kneeling and a kitty and some lambs and a lion – not together, you know – the lambs and the lion. Oh, of course the Bible says they will sometime, but they haven’t yet – that is, I mean Mrs. White’s haven’t. Don’t you just love pictures?”

      “I—I don’t know,” answered Nancy in a half-stifled voice.

      “I do. We didn’t have any pictures. They don’t come in the barrels much, you know. There did two come once, though. But one was so good father sold it to get money to buy me some shoes with; and the other was so bad it fell to pieces just as soon as we hung it up. Glass – it broke, you know. And I cried. But I’m glad now we didn’t have any of those nice things, ’cause I shall like Aunt Polly’s all the better – not being used to ’em, you see. Just as it is when the pretty hair-ribbons come in the barrels after a lot of faded-out brown ones. My! but isn’t this a perfectly beautiful house?” she broke off fervently, as they turned into the wide driveway.

      It was when Timothy was unloading the trunk that Nancy found an opportunity to mutter low in his ear:

      “Don’t you never say nothin’ ter me again about leavin’, Timothy Durgin. You couldn’t hire me ter leave!”

      “Leave! I should say not,” grinned the youth.

      “You couldn’t drag me away. It’ll be more fun here now, with that kid ‘round, than movin’-picture shows, every day!”

      “Fun!—fun!” repeated Nancy, indignantly, “I guess it’ll be somethin’ more than fun for that blessed child – when them two tries ter live tergether; and I guess she’ll be a-needin’ some rock ter fly to for refuge. Well, I’m a-goin’ ter be that rock, Timothy; I am, I am!” she vowed, as she turned and led Pollyanna up the broad steps.

       CHAPTER 4

       The Little Attic Room

      Miss Polly Harrington did not rise to meet her niece. She looked up from her book, it is true, as Nancy and the little girl appeared in the sitting-room doorway, and she held out a hand with “duty” written large on every coldly extended finger.

      “How do you do, Pollyanna? I—” She had no chance to say more. Pollyanna, had fairly flown across the room and flung herself into her aunt’s scandalized, unyielding lap.

      “Oh, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, I don’t know how to be glad enough that you let me come to live with you,” she was sobbing. “You don’t know how perfectly lovely it is to have you and Nancy and all this after you’ve had just the Ladies’ Aid!”

      “Very likely – though I’ve not had the pleasure of the Ladies’ Aid’s acquaintance,” rejoined Miss Polly, stiffly, trying to unclasp the small, clinging fingers, and turning frowning eyes on Nancy in the doorway. “Nancy, that will do. You may go. Pollyanna, be good enough, please, to stand erect in a proper manner. I don’t know yet what you look like.”

      Pollyanna drew back at once, laughing a little hysterically.

      “No, I suppose you don’t; but you see I’m not very much to look at, anyway, on account of the freckles. Oh, and I ought to explain about the red gingham and the black velvet basque with white spots on the elbows. I told Nancy how father said—”

      “Yes; well, never mind now what your father said,” interrupted Miss Polly, crisply. “You had a trunk, I presume?”

      “Oh, yes, indeed, Aunt Polly. I’ve got a beautiful trunk that the Ladies’ Aid gave me. I haven’t got so very much in it – of my own, I mean. The barrels haven’t had many clothes for little girls in them lately; but there were all father’s books, and Mrs. White said she thought I ought to have those. You see, father—”

      “Pollyanna,” interrupted her aunt again, sharply, “there is one thing that might just as well be understood right away at once; and that is, I do not care to have you keep talking of your father to me.”

      The little girl drew in her breath tremulously.

      “Why, Aunt Polly, you—you mean—” She hesitated, and her aunt filled the pause.

      “We will go up-stairs to your room. Your trunk is already there, I presume. I told Timothy to take it up – if you had one. You may follow me, Pollyanna.”

      Without speaking, Pollyanna turned and followed her aunt from the room. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but her chin was bravely high.

      “After all, I—I reckon I’m glad she doesn’t want me to talk about father,” Pollyanna was thinking. “It’ll be easier, maybe – if I don’t talk about him. Probably, anyhow, that is why she told me not to talk about him.” And Pollyanna, convinced anew of her aunt’s “kindness,” blinked off the tears and looked eagerly about her.

      She was on the stairway now. Just ahead, her aunt’s black silk skirt rustled luxuriously. Behind her an open door allowed a glimpse of soft-tinted rugs and satin-covered chairs. Beneath her feet a marvellous carpet was like green moss to the tread. On every side the gilt of picture frames or the glint of sunlight through the filmy mesh of lace curtains flashed in her eyes.

      “Oh, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly,” breathed the little girl, rapturously; “what a perfectly lovely, lovely house! How awfully glad you must be you’re so rich!”