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

I will own up, honest to true, that I couldn’t think of anything for a while. Then I got it.”

      “Did you, really? Well, what is it?” Mrs. Snow’s voice was sarcastically polite.

      Pollyanna drew a long breath.

      “I thought—how glad you could be—that other folks weren’t like you—all sick in bed like this, you know,” she announced impressively. Mrs. Snow stared. Her eyes were angry.

      “Well, really!” she ejaculated then, in not quite an agreeable tone of voice.

      “And now I’ll tell you the game,” proposed Pollyanna, blithely confident. “It’ll be just lovely for you to play—it’ll be so hard. And there’s so much more fun when it is hard! You see, it’s like this.” And she began to tell of the missionary barrel, the crutches, and the doll that did not come.

      The story was just finished when Milly appeared at the door.

      “Your aunt is wanting you, Miss Pollyanna,” she said with dreary listlessness. “She telephoned down to the Harlows’ across the way. She says you’re to hurry—that you’ve got some practising to make up before dark.”

      Pollyanna rose reluctantly.

      “All right,” she sighed. “I’ll hurry.” Suddenly she laughed. “I suppose I ought to be glad I’ve got legs to hurry with, hadn’t I, Mrs. Snow?”

      There was no answer. Mrs. Snow’s eyes were closed. But Milly, whose eyes were wide open with surprise, saw that there were tears on the wasted cheeks.

      “Good-by,” flung Pollyanna over her shoulder, as she reached the door. “I’m awfully sorry about the hair—I wanted to do it. But maybe I can next time!”

      One by one the July days passed. To Pollyanna, they were happy days, indeed. She often told her aunt, joyously, how very happy they were. Whereupon her aunt would usually reply, wearily:

      “Very well, Pollyanna. I am gratified, of course, that they are happy; but I trust that they are profitable, as well—otherwise I should have failed signally in my duty.”

      Generally Pollyanna would answer this with a hug and a kiss—a proceeding that was still always most disconcerting to Miss Polly; but one day she spoke. It was during the sewing hour.

      “Do you mean that it wouldn’t be enough then, Aunt Polly, that they should be just happy days?” she asked wistfully.

      “That is what I mean, Pollyanna.”

      “They must be pro-fi-ta-ble as well?”

      “Certainly.”

      “What is being pro-fi-ta-ble?”

      “Why, it—it’s just being profitable—having profit, something to show for it, Pollyanna. What an extraordinary child you are!”

      “Then just being glad isn’t pro-fi-ta-ble?” questioned Pollyanna, a little anxiously.

      “Certainly not.”

      “O dear! Then you wouldn’t like it, of course. I’m afraid, now, you won’t ever play the game, Aunt Polly.”

      “Game? What game?”

      “Why, that father—” Pollyanna clapped her hand to her lips. “N-nothing,” she stammered. Miss Polly frowned.

      “That will do for this morning, Pollyanna,” she said tersely. And the sewing lesson was over.

      It was that afternoon that Pollyanna, coming down from her attic room, met her aunt on the stairway.

      “Why, Aunt Polly, how perfectly lovely!” she cried. “You were coming up to see me! Come right in. I love company,” she finished, scampering up the stairs and throwing her door wide open.

      Now Miss Polly had not been intending to call on her niece. She had been planning to look for a certain white wool shawl in the cedar chest near the east window. But to her unbounded surprise now, she found herself, not in the main attic before the cedar chest, but in Pollyanna’s little room sitting in one of the straight-backed chairs—so many, many times since Pollyanna came, Miss Polly had found herself like this, doing some utterly unexpected, surprising thing, quite unlike the thing she had set out to do!

      “I love company,” said Pollyanna, again, flitting about as if she were dispensing the hospitality of a palace; “specially since I’ve had this room, all mine, you know. Oh, of course, I had a room, always, but ‘twas a hired room, and hired rooms aren’t half as nice as owned ones, are they? And of course I do own this one, don’t I?”

      “Why, y-yes, Pollyanna,” murmured Miss Polly, vaguely wondering why she did not get up at once and go to look for that shawl.

      “And of course NOW I just love this room, even if it hasn’t got the carpets and curtains and pictures that I’d been want—” With a painful blush Pollyanna stopped short. She was plunging into an entirely different sentence when her aunt interrupted her sharply.

      “What’s that, Pollyanna?”

      “N-nothing, Aunt Polly, truly. I didn’t mean to say it.”

      “Probably not,” returned Miss Polly, coldly; “but you did say it, so suppose we have the rest of it.”

      “But it wasn’t anything only that I’d been kind of planning on pretty carpets and lace curtains and things, you know. But, of course—”

      “PLANNING on them!” interrupted Miss Polly, sharply.

      Pollyanna blushed still more painfully.

      “I ought not to have, of course, Aunt Polly,” she apologized. “It was only because I’d always wanted them and hadn’t had them, I suppose. Oh, we’d had two rugs in the barrels, but they were little, you know, and one had ink spots, and the other holes; and there never were only those two pictures; the one fath—I mean the good one we sold, and the bad one that broke. Of course if it hadn’t been for all that I shouldn’t have wanted them, so—pretty things, I mean; and I shouldn’t have got to planning all through the hall that first day how pretty mine would be here, and—and—but, truly, Aunt Polly, it wasn’t but just a minute—I mean, a few minutes—before I was being glad that the bureau DIDN’T have a looking-glass, because it didn’t show my freckles; and there couldn’t be a nicer picture than the one out my window there; and you’ve been so good to me, that—”

      Miss Polly rose suddenly to her feet. Her face was very red.

      “That will do, Pollyanna,” she said stiffly.

      “You have said quite enough, I’m sure.” The next minute she had swept down the stairs—and not until she reached the first floor did it suddenly occur to her that she had gone up into the attic to find a white wool shawl in the cedar chest near the east window.

      Less than twenty-four hours later, Miss Polly said to Nancy, crisply:

      “Nancy, you may move Miss Pollyanna’s things down-stairs this morning to the room directly beneath. I have decided to have my niece sleep there for the present.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” said Nancy aloud.

      “O glory!” said Nancy to herself.

      To Pollyanna, a minute later, she cried joyously:

      “And won’t ye jest be listenin’ ter this, Miss Pollyanna. You’re ter sleep down-stairs in the room straight under this. You are—you are!”

      Pollyanna actually grew white.

      “You mean—why, Nancy, not really—really and truly?”

      “I guess you’ll think it’s really and truly,” prophesied Nancy, exultingly, nodding her head to Pollyanna over the armful of dresses she had taken from the closet. “I’m told ter take down yer things, and I’m goin’ ter take ‘em, too, ‘fore she gets a chance ter change her mind.”