Pollyanna
countries--Egypt and Asia and the Desert of Sarah, you know.”
“Oh, a missionary,” nodded Pollyanna.
Nancy laughed oddly.
“Well, I didn't say that, Miss Pollyanna. When he comes back he writes
books--queer, odd books, they say, about some gimcrack he's found in
them heathen countries. But he don't never seem ter want ter spend no
money here--leastways, not for jest livin'.”
“Of course not--if he's saving it for the heathen,” declared Pollyanna.
“But he is a funny man, and he's different, too, just like Mrs. Snow,
only he's a different different.”
“Well, I guess he is--rather,” chuckled Nancy.
“I'm gladder'n ever now, anyhow, that he speaks to me,” sighed Pollyanna
contentedly.
CHAPTER X. A SURPRISE FOR MRS. SNOW
The next time Pollyanna went to see Mrs. Snow, she found that lady, as
at first, in a darkened room.
“It's the little girl from Miss Polly's, mother,” announced Milly, in a
tired manner; then Pollyanna found herself alone with the invalid.
“Oh, it's you, is it?” asked a fretful voice from the bed. “I remember
you. ANYbody'd remember you, I guess, if they saw you once. I wish you
had come yesterday. I WANTED you yesterday.”
“Did you? Well, I'm glad 'tisn't any farther away from yesterday than
to-day is, then,” laughed Pollyanna, advancing cheerily into the room,
and setting her basket carefully down on a chair. “My! but aren't you
dark here, though? I can't see you a bit,” she cried, unhesitatingly
crossing to the window and pulling up the shade. “I want to see if
you've fixed your hair like I did--oh, you haven't! But, never mind; I'm
glad you haven't, after all, 'cause maybe you'll let me do it--later.
But now I want you to see what I've brought you.”
The woman stirred restlessly.
“Just as if how it looks would make any difference in how it tastes,”
she scoffed--but she turned her eyes toward the basket. “Well, what is
it?”
“Guess! What do you want?” Pollyanna had skipped back to the basket. Her
face was alight. The sick woman frowned.
“Why, I don't WANT anything, as I know of,” she sighed. “After all, they
all taste alike!”
Pollyanna chuckled.
“This won't. Guess! If you DID want something, what would it be?”
The woman hesitated. She did not realize it herself, but she had so long
been accustomed to wanting what she did not have, that to state off-hand
what she DID want seemed impossible--until she knew what she had.
Obviously, however, she must say something. This extraordinary child was
waiting.
“Well, of course, there's lamb broth--”
“I've got it!” crowed Pollyanna.
“But that's what I DIDN'T want,” sighed the sick woman, sure now of what
her stomach craved. “It was chicken I wanted.”
“Oh, I've got that, too,” chuckled Pollyanna.
The woman turned in amazement.
“Both of them?” she demanded.
“Yes--and calf's-foot jelly,” triumphed Pollyanna. “I was just bound you
should have what you wanted for once; so Nancy and I fixed it. Oh, of
course, there's only a little of each--but there's some of all of 'em!
I'm so glad you did want chicken,” she went on contentedly, as she
lifted the three little bowls from her basket. “You see, I got to
thinking on the way here--what if you should say tripe, or onions,
or something like that, that I didn't have! Wouldn't it have been a
shame--when I'd tried so hard?” she laughed merrily.
There was no reply. The sick woman seemed to be trying--mentally to find
something she had lost.
“There! I'm to leave them all,” announced Pollyanna, as she arranged the
three bowls in a row on the table. “Like enough it'll be lamb broth you
want to-morrow. How do you do to-day?” she finished in polite inquiry.
“Very poorly, thank you,” murmured Mrs. Snow, falling back into her
usual listless attitude. “I lost my nap this morning. Nellie Higgins
next door has begun music lessons, and her practising drives me nearly
wild. She was at it all the morning--every minute! I'm sure, I don't
know what I shall do!”
Polly nodded sympathetically.
“I know. It IS awful! Mrs. White had it once--one of my Ladies' Aiders,
you know. She had rheumatic fever, too, at the same time, so she
couldn't thrash 'round. She said 'twould have been easier if she could
have. Can you?”
“Can I--what?”
“Thrash 'round--move, you know, so as to change your position when the
music gets too hard to stand.”
Mrs. Snow stared a little.
“Why, of course I can move--anywhere--in bed,” she rejoined a little
irritably.
“Well, you can be glad of that, then, anyhow, can't you?” nodded
Pollyanna. “Mrs. White couldn't. You can't thrash when you have
rheumatic fever--though you want to something awful, Mrs. White says.
She told me afterwards she reckoned she'd have gone raving crazy if it
hadn't been for Mr. White's sister's ears--being deaf, so.”
“Sister's--EARS! What do you mean?”
Pollyanna laughed.
“Well, I reckon I didn't tell it all, and I forgot you didn't know Mrs.
White. You see, Miss White was deaf--awfully deaf; and she came to visit
'em and to help take care of Mrs. White and the house. Well, they had
such an awful time making her understand ANYTHING, that after that,
every time the piano commenced to play across the street, Mrs. White
felt so glad she COULD hear it, that she didn't mind so much that she
DID hear it, 'cause she couldn't help thinking how awful 'twould be if
she was deaf and couldn't hear anything, like her husband's sister. You
see, she was playing the game, too. I'd told her about it.”
“The--game?”
Pollyanna clapped her hands.
“There! I 'most forgot; but I've thought it up, Mrs. Snow--what you can
be glad about.”
“GLAD about! What do you mean?”
“Why, I told you I would. Don't you remember? You asked me to tell you
something to be glad about--glad, you know, even though you did have to
lie here abed all day.”
“Oh!” scoffed the woman. “THAT? Yes, I remember that; but I didn't
suppose you were in earnest any more than I was.”
“Oh, yes, I was,” nodded Pollyanna, triumphantly; “and I found it, too.
But 'TWAS hard. It's all the more fun, though, always, when 'tis hard.
And 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