Pollyanna & Pollyanna Grows Up (Musaicum Children's Classics). Eleanor H. Porter

Nancy had finished grimly.

      Pollyanna was thinking of these remarks to-day as she turned in at the gate of the shabby little cottage. Her eyes were quite sparkling, indeed, at the prospect of meeting this “different” Mrs. Snow.

      A pale-faced, tired-looking young girl answered her knock at the door.

      “How do you do?” began Pollyanna politely. “I’m from Miss Polly Harrington, and I’d like to see Mrs. Snow, please.”

      “Well, if you would, you’re the first one that ever ‘liked’ to see her,” muttered the girl under her breath; but Pollyanna did not hear this. The girl had turned and was leading the way through the hall to a door at the end of it.

      In the sick-room, after the girl had ushered her in and closed the door, Pollyanna blinked a little before she could accustom her eyes to the gloom. Then she saw, dimly outlined, a woman half-sitting up in the bed across the room. Pollyanna advanced at once.

      “How do you do, Mrs. Snow? Aunt Polly says she hopes you are comfortable to-day, and she’s sent you some calf’s-foot jelly.”

      “Dear me! Jelly?” murmured a fretful voice. “Of course I’m very much obliged, but I was hoping ‘twould be lamb broth to-day.”

      Pollyanna frowned a little.

      “Why, I thought it was CHICKEN you wanted when folks brought you jelly,” she said.

      “What?” The sick woman turned sharply.

      “Why, nothing, much,” apologized Pollyanna, hurriedly; “and of course it doesn’t really make any difference. It’s only that Nancy said it was chicken you wanted when we brought jelly, and lamb broth when we brought chicken—but maybe ‘twas the other way, and Nancy forgot.”

      The sick woman pulled herself up till she sat erect in the bed—a most unusual thing for her to do, though Pollyanna did not know this.

      “Well, Miss Impertinence, who are you?” she demanded.

      Pollyanna laughed gleefully.

      “Oh, THAT isn’t my name, Mrs. Snow—and I’m so glad ‘tisn’t, too! That would be worse than ‘Hephzibah,’ wouldn’t it? I’m Pollyanna Whittier, Miss Polly Harrington’s niece, and I’ve come to live with her. That’s why I’m here with the jelly this morning.”

      All through the first part of this sentence, the sick woman had sat interestedly erect; but at the reference to the jelly she fell back on her pillow listlessly.

      “Very well; thank you. Your aunt is very kind, of course, but my appetite isn’t very good this morning, and I was wanting lamb—” She stopped suddenly, then went on with an abrupt change of subject. “I never slept a wink last night—not a wink!”

      “O dear, I wish I didn’t,” sighed Pollyanna, placing the jelly on the little stand and seating herself comfortably in the nearest chair. “You lose such a lot of time just sleeping! Don’t you think so?”

      “Lose time—sleeping!” exclaimed the sick woman.

      “Yes, when you might be just living, you know. It seems such a pity we can’t live nights, too.”

      Once again the woman pulled herself erect in her bed.

      “Well, if you ain’t the amazing young one!” she cried. “Here! do you go to that window and pull up the curtain,” she directed. “I should like to know what you look like!”

      Pollyanna rose to her feet, but she laughed a little ruefully.

      “O dear! then you’ll see my freckles, won’t you?” she sighed, as she went to the window; “—and just when I was being so glad it was dark and you couldn’t see ‘em. There! Now you can—oh!” she broke off excitedly, as she turned back to the bed; “I’m so glad you wanted to see me, because now I can see you! They didn’t tell me you were so pretty!”

      “Me!—pretty!” scoffed the woman, bitterly.

      “Why, yes. Didn’t you know it?” cried Pollyanna.

      “Well, no, I didn’t,” retorted Mrs. Snow, dryly. Mrs. Snow had lived forty years, and for fifteen of those years she had been too busy wishing things were different to find much time to enjoy things as they were.

      “Oh, but your eyes are so big and dark, and your hair’s all dark, too, and curly,” cooed Pollyanna. “I love black curls. (That’s one of the things I’m going to have when I get to Heaven.) And you’ve got two little red spots in your cheeks. Why, Mrs. Snow, you ARE pretty! I should think you’d know it when you looked at yourself in the glass.”

      “The glass!” snapped the sick woman, falling back on her pillow. “Yes, well, I hain’t done much prinkin’ before the mirror these days—and you wouldn’t, if you was flat on your back as I am!”

      “Why, no, of course not,” agreed Pollyanna, sympathetically. “But wait—just let me show you,” she exclaimed, skipping over to the bureau and picking up a small hand-glass.

      On the way back to the bed she stopped, eyeing the sick woman with a critical gaze.

      “I reckon maybe, if you don’t mind, I’d like to fix your hair just a little before I let you see it,” she proposed. “May I fix your hair, please?”

      “Why, I—suppose so, if you want to,” permitted Mrs. Snow, grudgingly; “but ‘twon’t stay, you know.”

      “Oh, thank you. I love to fix people’s hair,” exulted Pollyanna, carefully laying down the hand-glass and reaching for a comb. “I sha’n’t do much to-day, of course—I’m in such a hurry for you to see how pretty you are; but some day I’m going to take it all down and have a perfectly lovely time with it,” she cried, touching with soft fingers the waving hair above the sick woman’s forehead.

      For five minutes Pollyanna worked swiftly, deftly, combing a refractory curl into fluffiness, perking up a drooping ruffle at the neck, or shaking a pillow into plumpness so that the head might have a better pose. Meanwhile the sick woman, frowning prodigiously, and openly scoffing at the whole procedure, was, in spite of herself, beginning to tingle with a feeling perilously near to excitement.

      “There!” panted Pollyanna, hastily plucking a pink from a vase near by and tucking it into the dark hair where it would give the best effect. “Now I reckon we’re ready to be looked at!” And she held out the mirror in triumph.

      “Humph!” grunted the sick woman, eyeing her reflection severely. “I like red pinks better than pink ones; but then, it’ll fade, anyhow, before night, so what’s the difference!”

      “But I should think you’d be glad they did fade,” laughed Pollyanna, “‘cause then you can have the fun of getting some more. I just love your hair fluffed out like that,” she finished with a satisfied gaze. “Don’t you?”

      “Hm-m; maybe. Still—‘twon’t last, with me tossing back and forth on the pillow as I do.”

      “Of course not—and I’m glad, too,” nodded Pollyanna, cheerfully, “because then I can fix it again. Anyhow, I should think you’d be glad it’s black—black shows up so much nicer on a pillow than yellow hair like mine does.”

      “Maybe; but I never did set much store by black hair—shows gray too soon,” retorted Mrs. Snow. She spoke fretfully, but she still held the mirror before her face.

      “Oh, I love black hair! I should be so glad if I only had it,” sighed Pollyanna.

      Mrs. Snow dropped the mirror and turned irritably.

      “Well, you wouldn’t!—not if you were me. You wouldn’t be glad for black hair nor anything else—if you had to lie here all day as I do!”

      Pollyanna bent her brows in a thoughtful frown.

      “Why, ‘twould be kind of hard—to do