Pollyanna

Pollyanna
By Eleanor H. Porter
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TO
My Cousin Belle
Pollyanna
CHAPTER I. MISS POLLY
M iss Polly Harrington entered her kitchen a little hur-

riedly this June morning. Miss Polly did not usually
make hurried movements; she specially prided herself on
her repose of manner. But to-day she was hurrying—actu-
ally hurrying.
Nancy, washing dishes at the sink, looked up in surprise.
Nancy had been working in Miss Polly’s kitchen only two
months, but already she knew that her mistress did not usu-
ally hurry.
‘Nancy!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Nancy answered cheerfully, but she still
continued wiping the pitcher in her hand.
‘Nancy,’—Miss Polly’s voice was very stern now—‘when
I’m talking to you, I wish you to stop your work and listen
to what I have to say.’
Nancy flushed miserably. She set the pitcher down at
once, with the cloth still about it, thereby nearly tipping it
over—which did not add to her composure.
‘Yes, ma’am; I will, ma’am,’ she stammered, righting the
pitcher, and turning hastily. ‘I was only keepin’ on with my
work ‘cause you specially told me this mornin’ ter hurry
with my dishes, ye know.’
Her mistress frowned.
‘That will do, Nancy. I did not ask for explanations. I
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asked for your attention.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Nancy stifled a sigh. She was wondering if
ever in any way she could please this woman. Nancy had
never ‘worked out’ before; but a sick mother suddenly wid-
owed and left with three younger children besides Nancy
herself, had forced the girl into doing something toward
their support, and she had been so pleased when she found
a place in the kitchen of the great house on the hill—Nancy
had come from ‘The Corners,’ six miles away, and she knew
Miss Polly Harrington only as the mistress of the old Har-
rington homestead, and one of the wealthiest residents of
the town. That was two months before. She knew Miss Polly
now as a stern, severe-faced woman who frowned if a knife
clattered to the floor, or if a door banged—but who never
thought to smile even when knives and doors were still.
‘When you’ve finished your morning work, Nancy,’ Miss
Polly was saying now, ‘you may clear the little room at the
head of the stairs in the attic, and make up the cot bed.
Sweep the room and clean it, of course, after you clear out
the trunks and boxes.’
‘Yes, ma’am. And where shall I put the things, please, that
I take out?’
‘In the front attic.’ Miss Polly hesitated, then went on: ‘I
suppose I may as well tell you now, Nancy. My niece, Miss
Pollyanna Whittier, is coming to live with me. She is eleven
years old, and will sleep in that room.’
‘A little girl—coming here, Miss Harrington? Oh, won’t
that be nice!’ cried Nancy, thinking of the sunshine her own
little sisters made in the home at ‘The Corners.’
Pollyanna
‘Nice? Well, that isn’t exactly the word I should use,’ re-
joined Miss Polly, stiffly. ‘However, I intend to make the
best of it, of course. I am a good woman, I hope; and I know
my duty.’
Nancy colored hotly.
‘Of course, ma’am; it was only that I thought a little girl
here might—might brighten things up for you,’ she fal-
tered.
‘Thank you,’ rejoined the lady, dryly. ‘I can’t say, however,
that I see any immediate need for that.’
‘But, of course, you—you’d want her, your sister’s child,’
ventured Nancy, vaguely feeling that somehow she must
prepare a welcome for this lonely little stranger.
Miss Polly lifted her chin haughtily.
‘Well, really, Nancy, just because I happened to have a sis-
ter who was silly enough to marry and bring unnecessary
children into a world that was already quite full enough, I
can’t see how I should particularly WANT to have the care
of them myself. However, as I said before, I hope I know my
duty. See that you clean the corners, Nancy,’ she finished
sharply, as she left the room.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ sighed Nancy, picking up the half-dried
pitcher—now so cold it must be rinsed again.
In her own room, Miss Polly took out once more the
letter which she had received two days before from the far-
away Western town, and which had been so unpleasant a
surprise to her. The letter was addressed to Miss Polly Har-
rington, Beldingsville, Vermont; and it read as follows:
‘Dear Madam:—I regret to inform you that the Rev. John

Whittier died two weeks ago, leaving one child, a girl eleven
years old. He left practically nothing else save a few books;
for, as you doubtless know, he was the pastor of this small
mission church, and had a very meagre salary.
‘I believe he was your deceased sister’s husband, but he
gave me to understand the families were not on the best of
terms. He thought, however, that for your sister’s sake you
might wish to take the child and bring her up among her
own people in the East. Hence I am writing to you.
‘The little girl will be all ready to start by the time you get
this letter; and if you can take her, we would appreciate it
very much if you would write that she might come at once,
as there is a man and his wife here who are going East very
soon, and they would take her with them to Boston, and put
her on the Beldingsville train. Of course you would be noti-
fied what day and train to expect Pollyanna on. Pollyanna
‘Hoping to hear favorably from you soon, I remain, ‘Re-
spectfully yours, ‘Jeremiah O. White.’
With a frown Miss Polly folded the letter and tucked
it into its envelope. She had answered it the day before,
and she had said she would take the child, of course. She
HOPED she knew her duty well enough for that!—disagree-
able as the task would be.
As she sat now, with the letter in her hands, her thoughts
went back to her sister, Jennie, who had been this child’s
mother, and to the time when Jennie, as a girl of twenty, had
insisted upon marrying the young minister, in spite of her
family’s remonstrances. There had been a man of wealth
who had wanted her—and the family had much preferred
Pollyanna
him to the minister; but Jennie had not. The man of wealth
had more years, as well as more money, to his credit, while
the minister had only a young head full of youth’s ideals
and enthusiasm, and a heart full of love. Jennie had pre-
ferred these—quite naturally, perhaps; so she had married
the minister, and had gone south with him as a home mis-
sionary’s wife.
The break had come then. Miss Polly remembered it well,
though she had been but a girl of fifteen, the youngest, at
the time. The family had had little more to do with the mis-
sionary’s wife. To be sure, Jennie herself had written, for a
time, and had named her last baby ‘Pollyanna’ for her two
sisters, Polly and Anna—the other babies had all died. This
had been the last time that Jennie had written; and in a few
years there had come the news of her death, told in a short,
but heart-broken little note from the minister himself, dat-
ed at a little town in the West.
Meanwhile, time had not stood still for the occupants
of the great house on the hill. Miss Polly, looking out at the
far-reaching valley below, thought of the changes those
twenty-five years had brought to her.
She was forty now, and quite alone in the world. Fa-
ther, mother, sisters—all were dead. For years, now, she had
been sole mistress of the house and of the thousands left
her by her father. There were people who had openly pitied
her lonely life, and who had urged her to have some friend
or companion to live with her; but she had not welcomed
either their sympathy or their advice. She was not lonely,
she said. She liked being by herself. She preferred quiet. But

now—
Miss Polly rose with frowning face and closely-shut lips.
She was glad, of course, that she was a good woman, and
that she not only knew her duty, but had sufficient strength
of character to perform it. But—POLLYANNA!—what a ri-
diculous name!
Pollyanna
CHAPTER II. OLD
TOM AND NANCY
I n the little attic room Nancy swept and scrubbed vigor-

ously, paying particular attention to the corners. There
were times, indeed, when the vigor she put into her work
was more of a relief to her feelings than it was an ardor to
efface dirt—Nancy, in spite of her frightened submission to
her mistress, was no saint.
‘I—just—wish—I could—dig—out the corners—of—
her—soul!’ she muttered jerkily, punctuating her words
with murderous jabs of her pointed cleaning-stick. ‘There’s
plenty of ‘em needs cleanin’ all right, all right! The idea of
stickin’ that blessed child ‘way off up here in this hot little
room—with no fire in the winter, too, and all this big house
ter pick and choose from! Unnecessary children, indeed!
Humph!’ snapped Nancy, wringing her rag so hard her fin-
gers ached from the strain; ‘I guess it ain’t CHILDREN what
is MOST unnecessary just now, just now!
For some time she worked in silence; then, her task
finished, she looked about the bare little room in plain dis-
gust.
‘Well, it’s done—my part, anyhow,’ she sighed. ‘There
ain’t no dirt here—and there’s mighty little else. Poor little
soul!—a pretty place this is ter put a homesick, lonesome

child into!’ she finished, going out and closing the door
with a bang, ‘Oh!’ she ejaculated, biting her lip. Then, dog-
gedly: ‘Well, I don’t care. I hope she did hear the bang,—I
do, I do!’
In the garden that afternoon, Nancy found a few min-
utes in which to interview Old Tom, who had pulled the
weeds and shovelled the paths about the place for uncount-
ed years.
‘Mr. Tom,’ began Nancy, throwing a quick glance over
her shoulder to make sure she was unobserved; ‘did you
know a little girl was comin’ here ter live with Miss Polly?’
‘A—what?’ demanded the old man, straightening his bent
back with difficulty.
‘A little girl—to live with Miss Polly.’
‘Go on with yer jokin’,’ scoffed unbelieving Tom. ‘Why
don’t ye tell me the sun is a-goin’ ter set in the east ter-mor-
rer?’
‘But it’s true. She told me so herself,’ maintained Nancy.
‘It’s her niece; and she’s eleven years old.’
The man’s jaw fell.
‘Sho!—I wonder, now,’ he muttered; then a tender light
came into his faded eyes. ‘It ain’t—but it must be—Miss
Jennie’s little gal! There wasn’t none of the rest of ‘em mar-
ried. Why, Nancy, it must be Miss Jennie’s little gal. Glory
be ter praise! ter think of my old eyes a-seein’ this! ‘
‘Who was Miss Jennie?
‘She was an angel straight out of Heaven,’ breathed the
man, fervently; ‘but the old master and missus knew her
as their oldest daughter. She was twenty when she married
10 Pollyanna
and went away from here long years ago. Her babies all died,
I heard, except the last one; and that must be the one what’s
a-comin’.’
‘She’s eleven years old.’
‘Yes, she might be,’ nodded the old man.
‘And she’s goin’ ter sleep in the attic—more shame ter
HER!’ scolded Nancy, with another glance over her shoul-
der toward the house behind her.
Old Tom frowned. The next moment a curious smile
curved his lips.
I’m a-wonderin’ what Miss Polly will do with a child in
the house,’ he said.
‘Humph! Well, I’m a-wonderin’ what a child will do with
Miss Polly in the house!’ snapped Nancy.
The old man laughed.
‘I’m afraid you ain’t fond of Miss Polly,’ he grinned.
‘As if ever anybody could be fond of her!’ scorned Nancy.
Old Tom smiled oddly. He stooped and began to work
again.
‘I guess maybe you didn’t know about Miss Polly’s love
affair,’ he said slowly.
‘Love affair—HER! No!—and I guess nobody else didn’t,
neither.’
‘Oh, yes they did,’ nodded the old man. ‘And the feller’s
livin’ ter-day—right in this town, too.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I ain’t a-tellin’ that. It ain’t fit that I should.’ The old man
drew himself erect. In his dim blue eyes, as he faced the
house, there was the loyal servant’s honest pride in the fam-
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ily he has served and loved for long years.
‘But it don’t seem possible—her and a lover,’ still main-
tained Nancy.
Old Tom shook his head.
‘You didn’t know Miss Polly as I did,’ he argued. ‘She
used ter be real handsome—and she would be now, if she’d
let herself be.’
‘Handsome! Miss Polly!’
‘Yes. If she’d just let that tight hair of hern all out loose
and careless-like, as it used ter be, and wear the sort of bun-
nits with posies in ‘em, and the kind o’ dresses all lace and
white things—you’d see she’d be handsome! Miss Polly
ain’t old, Nancy.’
‘Ain’t she, though? Well, then she’s got an awfully good
imitation of it—she has, she has!’ sniffed Nancy.
‘Yes, I know. It begun then—at the time of the trouble
with her lover,’ nodded Old Tom; ‘and it seems as if she’d
been feedin’ on wormwood an’ thistles ever since—she’s
that bitter an’ prickly ter deal with.’
‘I should say she was,’ declared Nancy, indignantly.
‘There’s no pleasin’ her, nohow, no matter how you try! I
wouldn’t stay if ‘twa’n’t for the wages and the folks at home
what’s needin’ ‘em. But some day—some day I shall jest b’ile
over; and when I do, of course it’ll be good-by Nancy for me.
It will, it will.’
‘I know. I’ve felt it. It’s nart’ral—but ‘tain’t best, child;
‘tain’t best. Take my word for it, ‘tain’t best.’ And again he
bent his old head to the work before him.
12 Pollyanna
‘Nancy!’ called a sharp voice.
‘Y-yes, ma’am,’ stammered Nancy; and hurried toward
the house.

CHAPTER III. THE
COMING OF POLLYANNA
I n due time came the telegram announcing that Pollyanna

would arrive in Beldingsville the next day, the twenty-
fifth of June, at four o’clock. Miss Polly read the telegram,
frowned, then climbed the stairs to the attic room. She still
frowned as she looked about her.
The room contained a small bed, neatly made, two
straight-backed chairs, a washstand, a bureau—without any
mirror—and a small table. There were no drapery curtains
at the dormer windows, no pictures on the wall. All day the
sun had been pouring down upon the roof, and the little
room was like an oven for heat. As there were no screens,
the windows had not been raised. A big fly was buzzing an-
grily at one of them now, up and down, up and down, trying
to get out.
Miss Polly killed the fly, swept it through the window
(raising the sash an inch for the purpose), straightened a
chair, frowned again, and left the room.
‘Nancy,’ she said a few minutes later, at the kitchen door,
‘I found a fly up-stairs in Miss Pollyanna’s room. The win-
dow must have been raised at some time. I have ordered
screens, but until they come I shall expect you to see that
the windows remain closed. My niece will arrive to-mor-
14 Pollyanna
row at four o’clock. I desire you to meet her at the station.
Timothy will take the open buggy and drive you over. The
telegram says ‘light hair, red-checked gingham dress, and
straw hat.’ That is all I know, but I think it is sufficient for
your purpose.’
‘Yes, ma’am; but—you—‘
Miss Polly evidently read the pause aright, for she
frowned and said crisply:
‘No, I shall not go. It is not necessary that I should, I
think. That is all.’ And she turned away—Miss Polly’s ar-
rangements for the comfort of her niece, Pollyanna, were
complete.
In the kitchen, Nancy sent her flatiron with a vicious dig
across the dish-towel she was ironing.
‘ ‘Light hair, red-checked gingham dress, and straw hat’—
all she knows, indeed! Well, I’d be ashamed ter own it up,
that I would, I would—and her my onliest niece what was
a-comin’ from ‘way across the continent!’
Promptly at twenty minutes to four the next afternoon
Timothy and Nancy drove off in the open buggy to meet the
expected guest. Timothy was Old Tom’s son. It was some-
times said in the town that if Old Tom was Miss Polly’s
right-hand man, Timothy was her left.
Timothy was a good-natured youth, and a good-looking
one, as well. Short as had been Nancy’s stay at the house, the
two were already good friends. To-day, however, Nancy was
too full of her mission to be her usual talkative self; and al-
most in silence she took the drive to the station and alighted
to wait for the train.

Over and over in her mind she was saying it ‘light hair,
red-checked dress, straw hat.’ Over and over again she was
wondering just what sort of child this Pollyanna was, any-
way.
‘I hope for her sake she’s quiet and sensible, and don’t
drop knives nor bang doors,’ she sighed to Timothy, who
had sauntered up to her.
‘Well, if she ain’t, nobody knows what’ll become of the
rest of us,’ grinned Timothy. ‘Imagine Miss Polly and a
NOISY kid! Gorry! there goes the whistle now!’
‘Oh, Timothy, I—I think it was mean ter send me,’ chat-
tered the suddenly frightened Nancy, as she turned and
hurried to a point where she could best watch the passen-
gers alight at the little station.
It was not long before Nancy saw her—the slender little
girl in the red-checked gingham with two fat braids of flax-
en hair hanging down her back. Beneath the straw hat, an
eager, freckled little face turned to the right and to the left,
plainly searching for some one.
Nancy knew the child at once, but not for some time
could she control her shaking knees sufficiently to go to her.
The little girl was standing quite by herself when Nancy fi-
nally did approach her.
‘Are you Miss—Pollyanna?’ she faltered. The next mo-
ment she found herself half smothered in the clasp of two
gingham-clad arms.
‘Oh, I’m so glad, GLAD, GLAD to see you,’ cried an eager
voice in her ear. ‘Of course I’m Pollyanna, and I’m so glad
you came to meet me! I hoped you would.’
16 Pollyanna
‘You—you did?’ stammered Nancy, vaguely wondering
how Pollyanna could possibly have known her—and want-
ed her. ‘You—you did? she repeated, trying to straighten her
hat.
‘Oh, yes; and I’ve been wondering all the way here what
you looked like,’ cried the little girl, dancing on her toes,
and sweeping the embarrassed Nancy from head to foot,
with her eyes. ‘And now I know, and I’m glad you look just
like you do look.’
Nancy was relieved just then to have Timothy come up.
Pollyanna’s words had been most confusing.
‘This is Timothy. Maybe you have a trunk,’ she stam-
mered.
‘Yes, I have,’ nodded Pollyanna, importantly. ‘I’ve got
a brand-new one. The Ladies’ Aid bought it for me—and
wasn’t it lovely of them, when they wanted the carpet so?
Of course I don’t know how much red carpet a trunk could
buy, but it ought to buy some, anyhow—much as half an
aisle, don’t you think? I’ve got a little thing here in my bag
that Mr. Gray said was a check, and that I must give it to
you before I could get my trunk. Mr. Gray is Mrs. Gray’s
husband. They’re cousins of Deacon Carr’s wife. I came
East with them, and they’re lovely! And—there, here ‘tis,’
she finished, producing the check after much fumbling in
the bag she carried.
Nancy drew a long breath. Instinctively she felt that
some one had to draw one—after that speech. Then she
stole a glance at Timothy. Timothy’s eyes were studiously
turned away.

The three were off at last, with Pollyanna’s trunk in be-
hind, and Pollyanna herself snugly ensconced between
Nancy and Timothy. During the whole process of getting
started, the little girl had kept up an uninterrupted stream
of comments and questions, until the somewhat dazed
Nancy found herself quite out of breath trying to keep up
with her.
‘There! Isn’t this lovely? Is it far? I hope ‘tis—I love to
ride,’ sighed Pollyanna, as the wheels began to turn. ‘Of
course, if ‘tisn’t far, I sha’n’t mind, though, ‘cause I’ll be glad
to get there all the sooner, you know. What a pretty street! I
knew ‘twas going to be pretty; father told me—‘
She stopped with a little choking breath. Nancy, looking
at her apprehensively, saw that her small chin was quivering,
and that her eyes were full of tears. In a moment, however,
she hurried on, with a brave lifting of her head.
‘Father told me all about it. He remembered. And—and
I ought to have explained before. Mrs. Gray told me to, at
once—about this red gingham dress, you know, and why
I’m not in black. She said you’d think ‘twas queer. But there
weren’t any black things in the last missionary barrel, only
a lady’s velvet basque which Deacon Carr’s wife said wasn’t
suitable for me at all; besides, it had white spots—worn, you
know—on both elbows, and some other places. Part of the
Ladies’ Aid wanted to buy me a black dress and hat, but the
other part thought the money ought to go toward the red
carpet they’re trying to get—for the church, you know. Mrs.
White said maybe it was just as well, anyway, for she didn’t
like children in black—that is, I mean, she liked the chil-
18 Pollyanna
dren, of course, but not the black part.’
Pollyanna paused for breath, and Nancy managed to
stammer:
‘Well, I’m sure it—it’ll be all right.’
‘I’m glad you feel that way. I do, too,’ nodded Pollyanna,
again with that choking little breath. ‘Of course, ‘twould
have been a good deal harder to be glad in black—‘
‘Glad!’ gasped Nancy, surprised into an interruption.
‘Yes—that father’s gone to Heaven to be with mother and
the rest of us, you know. He said I must be glad. But it’s been
pretty hard to—to do it, even in red gingham, because I—I
wanted him, so; and I couldn’t help feeling I OUGHT to
have him, specially as mother and the rest have God and all
the angels, while I didn’t have anybody but the Ladies’ Aid.
But now I’m sure it’ll be easier because I’ve got you, Aunt
Polly. I’m so glad I’ve got you!’
Nancy’s aching sympathy for the poor little forlornness
beside her turned suddenly into shocked terror.
‘Oh, but—but you’ve made an awful mistake, d-dear,’ she
faltered. ‘I’m only Nancy. I ain’t your Aunt Polly, at all!’
‘You—you AREN’T? stammered the little girl, in plain
dismay.
‘No. I’m only Nancy. I never thought of your takin’ me
for her. We—we ain’t a bit alike we ain’t, we ain’t!’
Timothy chuckled softly; but Nancy was too disturbed to
answer the merry flash from his eyes.
‘But who ARE you?’ questioned Pollyanna. ‘You don’t
look a bit like a Ladies’ Aider!’
Timothy laughed outright this time.

‘I’m Nancy, the hired girl. I do all the work except the
washin’ an’ hard ironin’. Mis’ Durgin does that.’
‘But there IS an Aunt Polly?’ demanded the child, anx-
iously.
‘You bet your life there is,’ cut in Timothy.
Pollyanna relaxed visibly.
‘Oh, that’s all right, then.’ There was a moment’s silence,
then she went on brightly: ‘And do you know? I’m glad, after
all, that she didn’t come 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
20 Pollyanna
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; least-
ways 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 mission-
ary 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 pic-
tures?’
‘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 bet-
ter—not being used to ‘em, you see. Just as it is when the
PRETTY hair-ribbons come in the barrels after a lot of fad-
ed-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 Nan-
cy 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.
22 Pollyanna
CHAPTER IV. THE
LITTLE ATTIC ROOM
M iss 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 ex-
tended 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 sob-
bing. ‘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 La-
dies’ Aid’s acquaintance,’ rejoined Miss Polly, stiffly, trying
to unclasp the small, clinging fingers, and turning frown-
ing 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 hysteri-
cally.
‘No, I suppose you don’t; but you see I’m not very much

to took at, anyway, on account of the freckles. Oh, and I
ought to explain about the red gingham and the black vel-
vet basque with white spots on the elbows. I told Nancy how
father said—‘
‘Yes; well, never mind now what your father said,’ inter-
rupted 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 fa-
ther’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, con-
24 Pollyanna
vinced 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 al-
lowed 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, rap-
turously; ‘what a perfectly lovely, lovely house! How awfully
glad you must be you’re so rich!’
‘PollyANNA!’ ejaculated her aunt, turning sharply about
as she reached the head of the stairs. ‘I’m surprised at you—
making a speech like that to me!’
‘Why, Aunt Polly, AREN’T you?’ queried Pollyanna, in
frank wonder.
‘Certainly not, Pollyanna. I hope I could not so far forget
myself as to be sinfully proud of any gift the Lord has seen
fit to bestow upon me,’ declared the lady; ‘certainly not, of
RICHES!’
Miss Polly turned and walked down the hall toward the
attic stairway door. She was glad, now, that she had put the
child in the attic room. Her idea at first had been to get
her niece as far away as possible from herself, and at the
same time place her where her childish heedlessness would
not destroy valuable furnishings. Now—with this evident
strain of vanity showing thus early—it was all the more for-
tunate that the room planned for her was plain and sensible,

thought Miss Polly.
Eagerly Pollyanna’s small feet pattered behind her aunt.
Still more eagerly her big blue eyes tried to look in all di-
rections at once, that no thing of beauty or interest in this
wonderful house might be passed unseen. Most eagerly of
all her mind turned to the wondrously exciting problem
about to be solved: behind which of all these fascinating
doors was waiting now her room—the dear, beautiful room
full of curtains, rugs, and pictures, that was to be her very
own? Then, abruptly, her aunt opened a door and ascended
another stairway.
There was little to be seen here. A bare wall rose on ei-
ther side. At the top of the stairs, wide reaches of shadowy
space led to far corners where the roof came almost down to
the floor, and where were stacked innumerable trunks and
boxes. It was hot and stifling, too. Unconsciously Pollyanna
lifted her head higher—it seemed so hard to breathe. Then
she saw that her aunt had thrown open a door at the right.
‘There, Pollyanna, here is your room, and your trunk is
here, I see. Have you your key?’
Pollyanna nodded dumbly. Her eyes were a little wide
and frightened.
Her aunt frowned.
‘When I ask a question, Pollyanna, I prefer that you
should answer aloud not merely with your head.’
‘Yes, Aunt Polly.’
‘Thank you; that is better. I believe you have everything
that you need here,’ she added, glancing at the well-filled
towel rack and water pitcher. ‘I will send Nancy up to help
26 Pollyanna
you unpack. Supper is at six o’clock,’ she finished, as she left
the room and swept down-stairs.
For a moment after she had gone Pollyanna stood quite
still, looking after her. Then she turned her wide eyes to
the bare wall, the bare floor, the bare windows. She turned
them last to the little trunk that had stood not so long be-
fore in her own little room in the far-away Western home.
The next moment she stumbled blindly toward it and fell on
her knees at its side, covering her face with her hands.
Nancy found her there when she came up a few minutes
later.
‘There, there, you poor lamb,’ she crooned, dropping to
the floor and drawing the little girl into her arms. ‘I was just
a-fearin! I’d find you like this, like this.’
Pollyanna shook her head.
‘But I’m bad and wicked, Nancy—awful wicked,’ she
sobbed. ‘I just can’t make myself understand that God and
the angels needed my father more than I did.’
‘No more they did, neither,’ declared Nancy, stoutly.
‘Oh-h!—NANCY!’ The burning horror in Pollyanna’s
eyes dried the tears.
Nancy gave a shamefaced smile and rubbed her own
eyes vigorously.
‘There, there, child, I didn’t mean it, of course,’ she cried
briskly. ‘Come, let’s have your key and we’ll get inside this
trunk and take our your dresses in no time, no time.’
Somewhat tearfully Pollyanna produced the key.
‘There aren’t very many there, anyway,’ she faltered.
‘Then they’re all the sooner unpacked,’ declared Nancy.

Pollyanna gave a sudden radiant smile.
‘That’s so! I can be glad of that, can’t I?’ she cried.
Nancy stared.
‘Why, of—course,’ she answered a little uncertainly.
Nancy’s capable hands made short work of unpacking
the books, the patched undergarments, and the few pitifully
unattractive dresses. Pollyanna, smiling bravely now, flew
about, hanging the dresses in the closet, stacking the books
on the table, and putting away the undergarments in the
bureau drawers.
‘I’m sure it—it’s going to be a very nice room. Don’t you
think so?’ she stammered, after a while.
There was no answer. Nancy was very busy, apparently,
with her head in the trunk. Pollyanna, standing at the bu-
reau, gazed a little wistfully at the bare wall above.
‘And I can be glad there isn’t any looking-glass here, too,
‘cause where there ISN’T any glass I can’t see my freckles.’
Nancy made a sudden queer little sound with her
mouth—but when Pollyanna turned, her head was in the
trunk again. At one of the windows, a few minutes later,
Pollyanna gave a glad cry and clapped her hands joyously.
‘Oh, Nancy, I hadn’t seen this before,’ she breathed.
‘Look—‘way off there, with those trees and the houses and
that lovely church spire, and the river shining just like sil-
ver. Why, Nancy, there doesn’t anybody need any pictures
with that to look at. Oh, I’m so glad now she let me have
this room!’
To Pollyanna’s surprise and dismay, Nancy burst into
tears. Pollyanna hurriedly crossed to her side.
28 Pollyanna
‘Why, Nancy, Nancy—what is it?’ she cried; then, fear-
fully: ‘This wasn’t—YOUR room, was it?’
‘My room!’ stormed Nancy, hotly, choking back the tears.
‘If you ain’t a little angel straight from Heaven, and if some
folks don’t eat dirt before—Oh, land! there’s her bell!’ After
which amazing speech, Nancy sprang to her feet, dashed
out of the room, and went clattering down the stairs.
Left alone, Pollyanna went back to her ‘picture,’ as she
mentally designated the beautiful view from the window.
After a time she touched the sash tentatively. It seemed as
if no longer could she endure the stifling heat. To her joy
the sash moved under her fingers. The next moment the
window was wide open, and Pollyanna was leaning far out,
drinking in the fresh, sweet air.
She ran then to the other window. That, too, soon flew
up under her eager hands. A big fly swept past her nose, and
buzzed noisily about the room. Then another came, and
another; but Pollyanna paid no heed. Pollyanna had made
a wonderful discovery—against this window a huge tree
flung great branches. To Pollyanna they looked like arms
outstretched, inviting her. Suddenly she laughed aloud.
‘I believe I can do it,’ she chuckled. The next moment
she had climbed nimbly to the window ledge. From there it
was an easy matter to step to the nearest tree-branch. Then,
clinging like a monkey, she swung herself from limb to
limb until the lowest branch was reached. The drop to the
ground was—even for Pollyanna, who was used to climb-
ing trees—a little fearsome. She took it, however, with bated
breath, swinging from her strong little arms, and landing

on all fours in the soft grass. Then she picked herself up and
looked eagerly about her.
She was at the back of the house. Before her lay a garden
in which a bent old man was working. Beyond the garden
a little path through an open field led up a steep hill, at the
top of which a lone pine tree stood on guard beside the huge
rock. To Pollyanna, at the moment, there seemed to be just
one place in the world worth being in—the top of that big
rock.
With a run and a skilful turn, Pollyanna skipped by the
bent old man, threaded her way between the orderly rows of
green growing things, and—a little out of breath—reached
the path that ran through the open field. Then, determined-
ly, she began to climb. Already, however, she was thinking
what a long, long way off that rock must be, when back at
the window it had looked so near!
Fifteen minutes later the great clock in the hallway of
the Harrington homestead struck six. At precisely the last
stroke Nancy sounded the bell for supper.
One, two, three minutes passed. Miss Polly frowned and
tapped the floor with her slipper. A little jerkily she rose
to her feet, went into the hall, and looked up-stairs, plain-
ly impatient. For a minute she listened intently; then she
turned and swept into the dining room.
‘Nancy,’ she said with decision, as soon as the little serv-
ing-maid appeared; ‘my niece is late. No, you need not call
her,’ she added severely, as Nancy made a move toward the
hall door. ‘I told her what time supper was, and now she
will have to suffer the consequences. She may as well begin
30 Pollyanna
at once to learn to be punctual. When she comes down she
may have bread and milk in the kitchen.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ It was well, perhaps, that Miss Polly did not
happen to be looking at Nancy’s face just then.
At the earliest possible moment after supper, Nancy crept
up the back stairs and thence to the attic room.
‘Bread and milk, indeed!—and when the poor lamb
hain’t only just cried herself to sleep,’ she was muttering
fiercely, as she softly pushed open the door. The next mo-
ment she gave a frightened cry. ‘Where are you? Where’ve
you gone? Where HAVE you gone?’ she panted, looking in
the closet, under the bed, and even in the trunk and down
the water pitcher. Then she flew down-stairs and out to Old
Tom in the garden.
‘Mr. Tom, Mr. Tom, that blessed child’s gone,’ she wailed.
‘She’s vanished right up into Heaven where she come from,
poor lamb—and me told ter give her bread and milk in the
kitchen—her what’s eatin’ angel food this minute, I’ll war-
rant, I’ll warrant!’
The old man straightened up.
‘Gone? Heaven?’ he repeated stupidly, unconsciously
sweeping the brilliant sunset sky with his gaze. He stopped,
stared a moment intently, then turned with a slow grin.
‘Well, Nancy, it do look like as if she’d tried ter get as nigh
Heaven as she could, and that’s a fact,’ he agreed, pointing
with a crooked finger to where, sharply outlined against the
reddening sky, a slender, wind-blown figure was poised on
top of a huge rock.
‘Well, she ain’t goin’ ter Heaven that way ter-night—not

if I has my say,’ declared Nancy, doggedly. ‘If the mistress
asks, tell her I ain’t furgettin’ the dishes, but I gone on a
stroll,’ she flung back over her shoulder, as she sped toward
the path that led through the open field.
32 Pollyanna
CHAPTER V. THE GAME
‘F or the land’s sake, Miss Pollyanna, what a scare you did

give me,’ panted Nancy, hurrying up to the big rock,
down which Pollyanna had just regretfully slid.
‘Scare? Oh, I’m so sorry; but you mustn’t, really, ever get
scared about me, Nancy. Father and the Ladies’ Aid used to
do it, too, till they found I always came back all right.’
‘But I didn’t even know you’d went,’ cried Nancy, tucking
the little girl’s hand under her arm and hurrying her down
the hill. ‘I didn’t see you go, and nobody didn’t. I guess you
flew right up through the roof; I do, I do.’
Pollyanna skipped gleefully.
‘I did, ‘most—only I flew down instead of up. I came
down the tree.’
Nancy stopped short.
‘You did—what?’
‘Came down the tree, outside my window.’
‘My stars and stockings!’ gasped Nancy, hurrying on
again. ‘I’d like ter know what yer aunt would say ter that!’
‘Would you? Well, I’ll tell her, then, so you can find out,’
promised the little girl, cheerfully.
‘Mercy!’ gasped Nancy. ‘No—no!’
‘Why, you don’t mean she’d CARE!’ cried Pollyanna,
plainly disturbed.
‘No—er—yes—well, never mind. I—I ain’t so very par-

ticular about knowin’ what she’d say, truly,’ stammered
Nancy, determined to keep one scolding from Pollyanna,
if nothing more. ‘But, say, we better hurry. I’ve got ter get
them dishes done, ye know.’
‘I’ll help,’ promised Pollyanna, promptly.
‘Oh, Miss Pollyanna!’ demurred Nancy.
For a moment there was silence. The sky was darkening
fast. Pollyanna took a firmer hold of her friend’s arm.
‘I reckon I’m glad, after all, that you DID get scared—a
little, ‘cause then you came after me,’ she shivered.
‘Poor little lamb! And you must be hungry, too. I—I’m
afraid you’ll have ter have bread and milk in the kitchen
with me. Yer aunt didn’t like it—because you didn’t come
down ter supper, ye know.’
‘But I couldn’t. I was up here.’
‘Yes; but—she didn’t know that, you see!’ observed Nan-
cy, dryly, stifling a chuckle. ‘I’m sorry about the bread and
milk; I am, I am.’
‘Oh, I’m not. I’m glad.’
‘Glad! Why?’
‘Why, I like bread and milk, and I’d like to eat with you. I
don’t see any trouble about being glad about that.’
‘You don’t seem ter see any trouble bein’ glad about
everythin’,’ retorted Nancy, choking a little over her re-
membrance of Pollyanna’s brave attempts to like the bare
little attic room.
Pollyanna laughed softly.
‘Well, that’s the game, you know, anyway.’
‘The—GAME?’
34 Pollyanna
‘Yes; the ‘just being glad’ game.’
‘Whatever in the world are you talkin’ about?’
‘Why, it’s a game. Father told it to me, and it’s lovely,’ re-
joined Pollyanna. ‘We’ve played it always, ever since I was
a little, little girl. I told the Ladies’ Aid, and they played it—
some of them.’
‘What is it? I ain’t much on games, though.’
Pollyanna laughed again, but she sighed, too; and in the
gathering twilight her face looked thin and wistful.
‘Why, we began it on some crutches that came in a mis-
sionary barrel.’
‘CRUTCHES!’
‘Yes. You see I’d wanted a doll, and father had written
them so; but when the barrel came the lady wrote that there
hadn’t any dolls come in, but the little crutches had. So she
sent ‘em along as they might come in handy for some child,
sometime. And that’s when we began it.’
‘Well, I must say I can’t see any game about that, about
that,’ declared Nancy, almost irritably.
‘Oh, yes; the game was to just find something about ev-
erything to be glad about—no matter what ‘twas,’ rejoined
Pollyanna, earnestly. ‘And we began right then—on the
crutches.’
‘Well, goodness me! I can’t see anythin’ ter be glad about—
gettin’ a pair of crutches when you wanted a doll!’
Pollyanna clapped her hands.
‘There is—there is,’ she crowed. ‘But I couldn’t see it, ei-
ther, Nancy, at first,’ she added, with quick honesty. ‘Father
had to tell it to me.’

‘Well, then, suppose YOU tell ME,’ almost snapped Nan-
cy.
‘Goosey! Why, just be glad because you don’t—NEED—
‘EM!’ exulted Pollyanna, triumphantly. ‘You see it’s just as
easy—when you know how!’
‘Well, of all the queer doin’s!’ breathed Nancy, regarding
Pollyanna with almost fearful eyes.
‘Oh, but it isn’t queer—it’s lovely,’ maintained Pollyan-
na enthusiastically. ‘And we’ve played it ever since. And
the harder ‘tis, the more fun ‘tis to get ‘em out; only—only
sometimes it’s almost too hard—like when your father goes
to Heaven, and there isn’t anybody but a Ladies’ Aid left.’
‘Yes, or when you’re put in a snippy little room ‘way at the
top of the house with nothin’ in it,’ growled Nancy.
Pollyanna sighed.
‘That was a hard one, at first,’ she admitted, ‘special-
ly when I was so kind of lonesome. I just didn’t feel like
playing the game, anyway, and I HAD been wanting pretty
things, so! Then I happened to think how I hated to see my
freckles in the looking-glass, and I saw that lovely picture
out the window, too; so then I knew I’d found the things
to be glad about. You see, when you’re hunting for the glad
things, you sort of forget the other kind—like the doll you
wanted, you know.’
‘Humph!’ choked Nancy, trying to swallow the lump in
her throat.
‘Most generally it doesn’t take so long,’ sighed Pollyan-
na; ‘and lots of times now I just think of them WITHOUT
thinking, you know. I’ve got so used to playing it. It’s a love-
36 Pollyanna
ly game. F-father and I used to like it so much,’ she faltered.
‘I suppose, though, it—it’ll be a little harder now, as long as I
haven’t anybody to play it with. Maybe Aunt Polly will play
it, though,’ she added, as an after-thought.
‘My stars and stockings!—HER!’ breathed Nancy, be-
hind her teeth. Then, aloud, she said doggedly: ‘See here,
Miss Pollyanna, I ain’t sayin’ that I’ll play it very well, and I
ain’t sayin’ that I know how, anyway; but I’ll play it with ye,
after a fashion—I just will, I will!’
‘Oh, Nancy!’ exulted Pollyanna, giving her a rapturous
hug. ‘That’ll be splendid! Won’t we have fun?’
‘Er—maybe,’ conceded Nancy, in open doubt. ‘But you
mustn’t count too much on me, ye know. I never was no
case fur games. but I’m a-goin’ ter make a most awful old
try on this one. You’re goin’ ter have some one ter play it
with, anyhow,’ she finished, as they entered the kitchen to-
gether.
Pollyanna ate her bread and milk with good appetite;
then, at Nancy’s suggestion, she went into the sitting room,
where her aunt sat reading. Miss Polly looked up coldly.
‘Have you had your supper, Pollyanna?’
‘Yes, Aunt Polly.’
‘I’m very sorry, Pollyanna, to have been obliged so soon
to send you into the kitchen to eat bread and milk.’
‘But I was real glad you did it, Aunt Polly. I like bread
and milk, and Nancy, too. You mustn’t feel bad about that
one bit.’
Aunt Polly sat suddenly a little more erect in her chair.
‘Pollyanna, it’s quite time you were in bed. You have had

a hard day, and to-morrow we must plan your hours and go
over your clothing to see what it is necessary to get for you.
Nancy will give you a candle. Be careful how you handle it.
Breakfast will be at half-past seven. See that you are down
to that. Good-night.’
Quite as a matter of course, Pollyanna came straight to
her aunt’s side and gave her an affectionate hug.
‘I’ve had such a beautiful time, so far,’ she sighed hap-
pily. I know I’m going to just love living with you but then, I
knew I should before I came. Good-night,’ she called cheer-
fully, as she ran from the room.
‘Well, upon my soul!’ ejaculated Miss Polly, half aloud.
‘What a most extraordinary child!’ Then she frowned. ‘She’s
‘glad’ I punished her, and I ‘mustn’t feel bad one bit,’ and
she’s going to ‘love to live’ with me! Well, upon my soul!’
ejaculated Miss Polly again, as she took up her book.
Fifteen minutes later, in the attic room, a lonely little girl
sobbed into the tightly-clutched sheet:
‘I know, father-among-the-angels, I’m not playing the
game one bit now—not one bit; but I don’t believe even you
could find anything to be glad about sleeping all alone ‘way
off up here in the dark—like this. If only I was near Nancy
or Aunt Polly, or even a Ladies’ Aider, it would be easier!’
Down-stairs in the kitchen, Nancy, hurrying with her
belated work, jabbed her dish-mop into the milk pitcher,
and muttered Jerkily:
‘If playin’ a silly-fool game—about bein’ glad you’ve got
crutches when you want dolls—is got ter be—my way—o’
bein’ that rock o’ refuge—why, I’m a-goin’ ter play it—I am,
38 Pollyanna
I am!’

CHAPTER VI. A
QUESTION OF DUTY
I t was nearly seven o’clock when Pollyanna awoke that

first day after her arrival. Her windows faced the south
and the west, so she could not see the sun yet; but she could
see the hazy blue of the morning sky, and she knew that the
day promised to be a fair one.
The little room was cooler now, and the air blew in fresh
and sweet. Outside, the birds were twittering joyously, and
Pollyanna flew to the window to talk to them. She saw then
that down in the garden her aunt was already out among
the rosebushes. With rapid fingers, therefore, she made her-
self ready to join her.
Down the attic stairs sped Pollyanna, leaving both doors
wide open. Through the hall, down the next flight, then
bang through the front screened-door and around to the
garden, she ran.
Aunt Polly, with the bent old man, was leaning over a
rose-bush when Pollyanna, gurgling with delight, flung
herself upon her.
‘Oh, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, I reckon I am glad this morn-
ing just to be alive!’
‘PollyANNA!’ remonstrated the lady, sternly, pulling her-
self as erect as she could with a dragging weight of ninety
40 Pollyanna
pounds hanging about her neck. ‘Is this the usual way you
say good morning?’
The little girl dropped to her toes, and danced lightly up
and down.
‘No, only when I love folks so I just can’t help it! I saw
you from my window, Aunt Polly, and I got to thinking how
you WEREN’T a Ladies’ Aider, and you were my really tru-
ly aunt; and you looked so good I just had to come down
and hug you!’
The bent old man turned his back suddenly. Miss Polly
attempted a frown—with not her usual success.
‘Pollyanna, you—I Thomas, that will do for this morning.
I think you understand—about those rose-bushes,’ she said
stiffly. Then she turned and walked rapidly away.
‘Do you always work in the garden, Mr.—Man?’ asked
Pollyanna, interestedly.
The man turned. His lips were twitching, but his eyes
looked blurred as if with tears.
‘Yes, Miss. I’m Old Tom, the gardener,’ he answered. Tim-
idly, but as if impelled by an irresistible force, he reached
out a shaking hand and let it rest for a moment on her bright
hair. ‘You are so like your mother. little Miss! I used ter
know her when she was even littler than you be. You see, I
used ter work in the garden—then.’
Pollyanna caught her breath audibly.
‘You did? And you knew my mother, really—when she
was just a little earth angel, and not a Heaven one? Oh,
please tell me about her!’ And down plumped Pollyanna in
the middle of the dirt path by the old man’s side.

A bell sounded from the house. The next moment Nancy
was seen flying out the back door.
‘Miss Pollyanna, that bell means breakfast—mornin’s,’
she panted, pulling the little girl to her feet and hurry-
ing her back to the house; ‘and other times it means other
meals. But it always means that you’re ter run like time
when ye hear it, no matter where ye be. If ye don’t—well, it’ll
take somethin’ smarter’n we be ter find ANYTHIN’ ter be
glad about in that!’ she finished, shooing Pollyanna into the
house as she would shoo an unruly chicken into a coop.
Breakfast, for the first five minutes, was a silent meal;
then Miss Polly, her disapproving eyes following the airy
wings of two flies darting here and there over the table, said
sternly:
‘Nancy, where did those flies come from?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am. There wasn’t one in the kitchen.’
Nancy had been too excited to notice Pollyanna’s up-flung
windows the afternoon before.
‘I reckon maybe they’re my flies, Aunt Polly,’ observed
Pollyanna, amiably. ‘There were lots of them this morning
having a beautiful time upstairs.’
Nancy left the room precipitately, though to do so she
had to carry out the hot muffins she had just brought in.
‘Yours!’ gasped Miss Polly. ‘What do you mean? Where
did they come from?’
‘Why, Aunt Polly, they came from out of doors of course,
through the windows. I SAW some of them come in.’
‘You saw them! You mean you raised those windows
without any screens?’
42 Pollyanna
‘Why, yes. There weren’t any screens there, Aunt Polly.’
Nancy, at this moment, came in again with the muffins.
Her face was grave, but very red.
‘Nancy,’ directed her mistress, sharply, ‘you may set the
muffins down and go at once to Miss Pollyanna’s room and
shut the windows. Shut the doors, also. Later, when your
morning work is done, go through every room with the
spatter. See that you make a thorough search.’
To her niece she said:
‘Pollyanna, I have ordered screens for those windows. I
knew, of course, that it was my duty to do that. But it seems
to me that you have quite forgotten YOUR duty.’
‘My—duty?’ Pollyanna’s eyes were wide with wonder.
‘Certainly. I know it is warm, but I consider it your duty
to keep your windows closed till those screens come. Flies,
Pollyanna, are not only unclean and annoying, but very
dangerous to health. After breakfast I will give you a little
pamphlet on this matter to read.’
‘To read? Oh, thank you, Aunt Polly. I love to read!’
Miss Polly drew in her breath audibly, then she shut her
lips together hard. Pollyanna, seeing her stern face, frowned
a little thoughtfully.
‘Of course I’m sorry about the duty I forgot, Aunt Polly,’
she apologized timidly. ‘I won’t raise the windows again.’
Her aunt made no reply. She did not speak, indeed, un-
til the meal was over. Then she rose, went to the bookcase
in the sitting room, took out a small paper booklet, and
crossed the room to her niece’s side.
‘This is the article I spoke of, Pollyanna. I desire you to go

to your room at once and read it. I will be up in half an hour
to look over your things.’
Pollyanna, her eyes on the illustration of a fly’s head,
many times magnified, cried joyously:
‘Oh, thank you, Aunt Polly!’ The next moment she
skipped merrily from the room, banging the door behind
her.
Miss Polly frowned, hesitated, then crossed the room
majestically and opened the door; but Pollyanna was al-
ready out of sight, clattering up the attic stairs.
Half an hour later when Miss Polly, her face expressing
stern duty in every line, climbed those stairs and entered
Pollyanna’s room, she was greeted with a burst of eager en-
thusiasm.
‘Oh, Aunt Polly, I never saw anything so perfectly lovely
and interesting in my life. I’m so glad you gave me that book
to read! Why, I didn’t suppose flies could carry such a lot of
things on their feet, and—‘
‘That will do,’ observed Aunt Polly, with dignity. ‘Polly-
anna, you may bring out your clothes now, and I will look
them over. What are not suitable for you I shall give to the
Sullivans, of course.’
With visible reluctance Pollyanna laid down the pam-
phlet and turned toward the closet.
‘I’m afraid you’ll think they’re worse than the Ladies’ Aid
did—and THEY said they were shameful,’ she sighed. ‘But
there were mostly things for boys and older folks in the last
two or three barrels; and—did you ever have a missionary
barrel, Aunt Polly?’
44 Pollyanna
At her aunt’s look of shocked anger, Pollyanna corrected
herself at once.
‘Why, no, of course you didn’t, Aunt Polly!’ she hurried
on, with a hot blush. ‘I forgot; rich folks never have to have
them. But you see sometimes I kind of forget that you are
rich—up here in this room, you know.’
Miss Polly’s lips parted indignantly, but no words came.
Pollyanna, plainly unaware that she had said anything in
the least unpleasant, was hurrying on.
‘Well, as I was going to say, you can’t tell a thing about
missionary barrels—except that you won’t find in ‘em what
you think you’re going to—even when you think you won’t.
It was the barrels every time, too, that were hardest to play
the game on, for father and—‘
Just in time Pollyanna remembered that she was not to
talk of her father to her aunt. She dived into her closet then,
hurriedly, and brought out all the poor little dresses in both
her arms.
‘They aren’t nice, at all,’ she choked, ‘and they’d been
black if it hadn’t been for the red carpet for the church; but
they’re all I’ve got.’
With the tips of her fingers Miss Polly turned over the
conglomerate garments, so obviously made for anybody but
Pollyanna. Next she bestowed frowning attention on the
patched undergarments in the bureau drawers.
‘I’ve got the best ones on,’ confessed Pollyanna, anxious-
ly. ‘The Ladies’ Aid bought me one set straight through all
whole. Mrs. Jones—she’s the president—told ‘em I should
have that if they had to clatter down bare aisles themselves

the rest of their days. But they won’t. Mr. White doesn’t
like the noise. He’s got nerves, his wife says; but he’s got
money, too, and they expect he’ll give a lot toward the car-
pet—on account of the nerves, you know. I should think
he’d be glad that if he did have the nerves he’d got money,
too; shouldn’t you?’
Miss Polly did not seem to hear. Her scrutiny of the un-
dergarments finished, she turned to Pollyanna somewhat
abruptly.
‘You have been to school, of course, Pollyanna?’
‘Oh, yes, Aunt Polly. Besides, fath—I mean, I was taught
at home some, too.’
Miss Polly frowned.
‘Very good. In the fall you will enter school here, of course.
Mr. Hall, the principal, will doubtless settle in which grade
you belong. Meanwhile, I suppose I ought to hear you read
aloud half an hour each day.’
‘I love to read; but if you don’t want to hear me I’d be just
glad to read to myself—truly, Aunt Polly. And I wouldn’t
have to half try to be glad, either, for I like best to read to
myself—on account of the big words, you know.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ rejoined Miss Polly, grimly. Have you
studied music?’
‘Not much. I don’t like my music—I like other people’s,
though. I learned to play on the piano a little. Miss Gray—
she plays for church—she taught me. But I’d just as soon let
that go as not, Aunt Polly. I’d rather, truly.’
‘Very likely,’ observed Aunt Polly, with slightly uplifted
eyebrows. ‘Nevertheless I think it is my duty to see that you
46 Pollyanna
are properly instructed in at least the rudiments of music.
You sew, of course.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Pollyanna sighed. The Ladies’ Aid taught
me that. But I had an awful time. Mrs. Jones didn’t believe
in holding your needle like the rest of ‘em did on button-
holing, and Mrs. White thought backstitching ought to be
taught you before hemming (or else the other way), and
Mrs. Harriman didn’t believe in putting you on patchwork
ever, at all.’
‘Well, there will be no difficulty of that kind any longer,
Pollyanna. I shall teach you sewing myself, of course. You
do not know how to cook, I presume.’
Pollyanna laughed suddenly.
‘They were just beginning to teach me that this summer,
but I hadn’t got far. They were more divided up on that than
they were on the sewing. They were GOING to begin on
bread; but there wasn’t two of ‘em that made it alike, so af-
ter arguing it all one sewing-meeting, they decided to take
turns at me one forenoon a week—in their own kitchens,
you know. I’d only learned chocolate fudge and fig cake,
though, when—when I had to stop.’ Her voice broke.
‘Chocolate fudge and fig cake, indeed!’ scorned Miss Pol-
ly. ‘I think we can remedy that very soon. ‘She paused in
thought for a minute, then went on slowly: ‘At nine o’clock
every morning you will read aloud one half-hour to me.
Before that you will use the time to put this room in or-
der. Wednesday and Saturday forenoons, after half-past
nine, you will spend with Nancy in the kitchen, learning to
cook. Other mornings you will sew with me. That will leave

the afternoons for your music. I shall, of course, procure a
teacher at once for you,’ she finished decisively, as she arose
from her chair.
Pollyanna cried out in dismay.
‘Oh, but Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, you haven’t left me any
time at all just to—to live.’
‘To live, child! What do you mean? As if you weren’t liv-
ing all the time!’
‘Oh, of course I’d be BREATHING all the time I was do-
ing those things, Aunt Polly, but I wouldn’t be living. You
breathe all the time you’re asleep, but you aren’t living. I
mean living—doing the things you want to do: playing out-
doors, reading (to myself, of course), climbing hills, talking
to Mr. Tom in the garden, and Nancy, and finding out all
about the houses and the people and everything everywhere
all through the perfectly lovely streets I came through yes-
terday. That’s what I call living, Aunt Polly. Just breathing
isn’t living!’
Miss Polly lifted her head irritably.
‘Pollyanna, you ARE the most extraordinary child! You
will be allowed a proper amount of playtime, of course. But,
surely, it seems to me if I am willing to do my duty in seeing
that you have proper care and instruction, YOU ought to be
willing to do yours by seeing that that care and instruction
are not ungratefully wasted.’
Pollyanna looked shocked.
‘Oh, Aunt Polly, as if I ever could be ungrateful—to YOU!
Why, I LOVE YOU—and you aren’t even a Ladies’ Aider;
you’re an aunt!’
48 Pollyanna
‘Very well; then see that you don’t act ungrateful,’ vouch-
safed Miss Polly, as she turned toward the door.
She had gone halfway down the stairs when a small, un-
steady voice called after her:
‘Please, Aunt Polly, you didn’t tell me which of my things
you wanted to—to give away.’
Aunt Polly emitted a tired sigh—a sigh that ascended
straight to Pollyanna’s ears.
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Pollyanna. Timothy will drive us
into town at half-past one this afternoon. Not one of your
garments is fit for my niece to wear. Certainly I should be
very far from doing my duty by you if I should let you ap-
pear out in any one of them.’
Pollyanna sighed now—she believed she was going to
hate that word—duty.
‘Aunt Polly, please,’ she called wistfully, ‘isn’t there ANY
way you can be glad about all that—duty business?’
‘What?’ Miss Polly looked up in dazed surprise; then,
suddenly, with very red cheeks, she turned and swept an-
grily down the stairs. ‘Don’t be impertinent, Pollyanna!’
In the hot little attic room Pollyanna dropped herself
on to one of the straight-backed chairs. To her, existence
loomed ahead one endless round of duty.
‘I don’t see, really, what there was impertinent about that,’
she sighed. ‘I was only asking her if she couldn’t tell me
something to be glad about in all that duty business.’
For several minutes Pollyanna sat in silence, her rueful
eyes fixed on the forlorn heap of garments on the bed. Then,
slowly, she rose and began to put away the dresses.

‘There just isn’t anything to be glad about, that I can see,’
she said aloud; ‘unless—it’s to be glad when the duty’s done!’
Whereupon she laughed suddenly.
50 Pollyanna
CHAPTER VII. POLLYANNA
AND PUNISHMENTS
A t half-past one o’clock Timothy drove Miss Polly and

her niece to the four or five principal dry goods stores,
which were about half a mile from the homestead.
Fitting Pollyanna with a new wardrobe proved to be
more or less of an exciting experience for all concerned.
Miss Polly came out of it with the feeling of limp relaxation
that one might have at finding oneself at last on solid earth
after a perilous walk across the very thin crust of a volca-
no. The various clerks who had waited upon the pair came
out of it with very red faces, and enough amusing stories of
Pollyanna to keep their friends in gales of laughter the rest
of the week. Pollyanna herself came out of it with radiant
smiles and a heart content; for, as she expressed it to one of
the clerks: ‘When you haven’t had anybody but missionary
barrels and Ladies’ Aiders to dress you, it IS perfectly love-
ly to just walk right in and buy clothes that are brand-new,
and that don’t have to be tucked up or let down because
they don’t fit!’
The shopping expedition consumed the entire afternoon;
then came supper and a delightful talk with Old Tom in the
garden, and another with Nancy on the back porch, after
the dishes were done, and while Aunt Polly paid a visit to

a neighbor.
Old Tom told Pollyanna wonderful things of her mother,
that made her very happy indeed; and Nancy told her all
about the little farm six miles away at ‘The Corners,’ where
lived her own dear mother, and her equally dear brother
and sisters. She promised, too, that sometime, if Miss Polly
were willing, Pollyanna should be taken to see them.
‘And THEY’VE got lovely names, too. You’ll like THEIR
names,’ sighed Nancy. ‘They’re ‘Algernon,’ and ‘Florabelle’
and ‘Estelle.’ I—I just hate ‘Nancy’!’
‘Oh, Nancy, what a dreadful thing to say! Why?’
‘Because it isn’t pretty like the others. You see, I was the
first baby, and mother hadn’t begun ter read so many stories
with the pretty names in ‘em, then.’
‘But I love ‘Nancy,’ just because it’s you,’ declared Pol-
lyanna.
‘Humph! Well, I guess you could love ‘Clarissa Mabelle’
just as well,’ retorted Nancy, and it would be a heap happier
for me. I think THAT name’s just grand!’
Pollyanna laughed.
‘Well, anyhow,’ she chuckled, ‘you can be glad it isn’t
‘Hephzibah.’
‘Hephzibah!’
‘Yes. Mrs. White’s name is that. Her husband calls her
‘Hep,’ and she doesn’t like it. She says when he calls out
‘Hep—Hep!’ she feels just as if the next minute he was going
to yell ‘Hurrah!’ And she doesn’t like to be hurrahed at.’
Nancy’s gloomy face relaxed into a broad smile.
‘Well, if you don’t beat the Dutch! Say, do you know?—
52 Pollyanna
I sha’n’t never hear ‘Nancy’ now that I don’t think o’ that
‘Hep—Hep!’ and giggle. My, I guess I AM glad—‘ She
stopped short and turned amazed eyes on the little girl.
‘Say, Miss Pollyanna, do you mean—was you playin’ that
‘ere game THEN—about my bein’ glad I wa’n’t named Hep-
hzibah’?’
Pollyanna frowned; then she laughed.
‘Why, Nancy, that’s so! I WAS playing the game—but
that’s one of the times I just did it without thinking, I reckon.
You see, you DO, lots of times; you get so used to it—look-
ing for something to be glad about, you know. And most
generally there is something about everything that you can
be glad about, if you keep hunting long enough to find it.’
‘Well, m-maybe,’ granted Nancy, with open doubt.
At half-past eight Pollyanna went up to bed. The screens
had not yet come, and the close little room was like an oven.
With longing eyes Pollyanna looked at the two fast-closed
windows—but she did not raise them. She undressed, fold-
ed her clothes neatly, said her prayers, blew out her candle
and climbed into bed.
Just how long she lay in sleepless misery, tossing from
side to side of the hot little cot, she did not know; but it
seemed to her that it must have been hours before she fi-
nally slipped out of bed, felt her way across the room and
opened her door.
Out in the main attic all was velvet blackness save where
the moon flung a path of silver half-way across the floor
from the east dormer window. With a resolute ignoring of
that fearsome darkness to the right and to the left, Polly-

anna drew a quick breath and pattered straight into that
silvery path, and on to the window.
She had hoped, vaguely, that this window might have a
screen, but it did not. Outside, however, there was a wide
world of fairy-like beauty, and there was, too, she knew,
fresh, sweet air that would feel so good to hot cheeks and
hands!
As she stepped nearer and peered longingly out, she saw
something else: she saw, only a little way below the window,
the wide, flat tin roof of Miss Polly’s sun parlor built over
the porte-cochere. The sight filled her with longing. If only,
now, she were out there!
Fearfully she looked behind her. Back there, somewhere,
were her hot little room and her still hotter bed; but be-
tween her and them lay a horrid desert of blackness across
which one must feel one’s way with outstretched, shrinking
arms; while before her, out on the sun-parlor roof, were the
moonlight and the cool, sweet night air.
If only her bed were out there! And folks did sleep out of
doors. Joel Hartley at home, who was so sick with the con-
sumption, HAD to sleep out of doors.
Suddenly Pollyanna remembered that she had seen
near this attic window a row of long white bags hanging
from nails. Nancy had said that they contained the winter
clothing, put away for the summer. A little fearfully now,
Pollyanna felt her way to these bags, selected a nice fat soft
one (it contained Miss Polly’s sealskin coat) for a bed; and
a thinner one to be doubled up for a pillow, and still an-
other (which was so thin it seemed almost empty) for a
54 Pollyanna
covering. Thus equipped, Pollyanna in high glee pattered
to the moonlit window again, raised the sash, stuffed her
burden through to the roof below, then let herself down af-
ter it, closing the window carefully behind her—Pollyanna
had not forgotten those flies with the marvellous feet that
carried things.
How deliciously cool it was! Pollyanna quite danced up
and down with delight, drawing in long, full breaths of the
refreshing air. The tin roof under her feet crackled with
little resounding snaps that Pollyanna rather liked. She
walked, indeed, two or three times back and forth from end
to end—it gave her such a pleasant sensation of airy space
after her hot little room; and the roof was so broad and flat
that she had no fear of falling off. Finally, with a sigh of
content, she curled herself up on the sealskin-coat mattress,
arranged one bag for a pillow and the other for a covering,
and settled herself to sleep.
‘I’m so glad now that the screens didn’t come,’ she mur-
mured, blinking up at the stars; ‘else I couldn’t have had
this!’
Down-stairs in Miss Polly’s room next the sun parlor,
Miss Polly herself was hurrying into dressing gown and
slippers, her face white and frightened. A minute before she
had been telephoning in a shaking voice to Timothy:
‘Come up quick!—you and your father. Bring lanterns.
Somebody is on the roof of the sun parlor. He must have
climbed up the rose-trellis or somewhere, and of course he
can get right into the house through the east window in the
attic. I have locked the attic door down here—but hurry,

quick!’
Some time later, Pollyanna, just dropping off to sleep,
was startled by a lantern flash, and a trio of amazed ejacu-
lations. She opened her eyes to find Timothy at the top of a
ladder near her, Old Tom just getting through the window,
and her aunt peering out at her from behind him.
‘Pollyanna, what does this mean?’ cried Aunt Polly then.
Pollyanna blinked sleepy eyes and sat up.
‘Why, Mr. Tom—Aunt Polly!’ she stammered. ‘Don’t
look so scared! It isn’t that I’ve got the consumption, you
know, like Joel Hartley. It’s only that I was so hot—in there.
But I shut the window, Aunt Polly, so the flies couldn’t carry
those germ-things in.’
Timothy disappeared suddenly down the ladder. Old
Tom, with almost equal precipitation, handed his lantern
to Miss Polly, and followed his son. Miss Polly bit her lip
hard—until the men were gone; then she said sternly:
‘Pollyanna, hand those things to me at once and come
in here. Of all the extraordinary children!’ she ejaculated a
little later, as, with Pollyanna by her side, and the lantern in
her hand, she turned back into the attic.
To Pollyanna the air was all the more stifling after that
cool breath of the out of doors; but she did not complain.
She only drew a long quivering sigh.
At the top of the stairs Miss Polly jerked out crisply:
‘For the rest of the night, Pollyanna, you are to sleep in
my bed with me. The screens will be here to-morrow, but
until then I consider it my duty to keep you where I know
where you are.’
56 Pollyanna
Pollyanna drew in her breath.
‘With you?—in your bed?’ she cried rapturously. ‘Oh,
Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, how perfectly lovely of you! And
when I’ve so wanted to sleep with some one sometime—
some one that belonged to me, you know; not a Ladies’
Aider. I’ve HAD them. My! I reckon I am glad now those
screens didn’t come! Wouldn’t you be?’
There was no reply. Miss Polly was stalking on ahead.
Miss Polly, to tell the truth, was feeling curiously helpless.
For the third time since Pollyanna’s arrival, Miss Polly was
punishing Pollyanna—and for the third time she was being
confronted with the amazing fact that her punishment was
being taken as a special reward of merit. No wonder Miss
Polly was feeling curiously helpless.

CHAPTER VIII. POLLYANNA
PAYS A VISIT
I t was not long before life at the Harrington homestead

settled into something like order—though not exactly
the order that Miss Polly had at first prescribed. Pollyanna
sewed, practised, read aloud, and studied cooking in the
kitchen, it is true; but she did not give to any of these things
quite so much time as had first been planned. She had more
time, also, to ‘just live,’ as she expressed it, for almost all of
every afternoon from two until six o’clock was hers to do
with as she liked—provided she did not ‘like’ to do certain
things already prohibited by Aunt Polly.
It is a question, perhaps, whether all this leisure time was
given to the child as a relief to Pollyanna from work—or as a
relief to Aunt Polly from Pollyanna. Certainly, as those first
July days passed, Miss Polly found occasion many times to
ejaculate ‘What an extraordinary child!’ and certainly the
reading and sewing lessons found her at their conclusion
each day somewhat dazed and wholly exhausted.
Nancy, in the kitchen, fared better. She was not dazed
nor exhausted. Wednesdays and Saturdays came to be, in-
deed, red-letter days to her.
There were no children in the immediate neighborhood
of the Harrington homestead for Pollyanna to play with. The
58 Pollyanna
house itself was on the outskirts of the village, and though
there were other houses not far away, they did not chance
to contain any boys or girls near Pollyanna’s age. This, how-
ever, did not seem to disturb Pollyanna in the least.
‘Oh, no, I don’t mind it at all,’ she explained to Nancy.
‘I’m happy just to walk around and see the streets and the
houses and watch the people. I just love people. Don’t you,
Nancy?’
‘Well, I can’t say I do—all of ‘em,’ retorted Nancy, terse-
ly.
Almost every pleasant afternoon found Pollyanna beg-
ging for ‘an errand to run,’ so that she might be off for a
walk in one direction or another; and it was on these walks
that frequently she met the Man. To herself Pollyanna al-
ways called him ‘the Man,’ no matter if she met a dozen
other men the same day.
The Man often wore a long black coat and a high silk hat—
two things that the ‘just men’ never wore. His face was clean
shaven and rather pale, and his hair, showing below his hat,
was somewhat gray. He walked erect, and rather rapidly,
and he was always alone, which made Pollyanna vaguely
sorry for him. Perhaps it was because of this that she one
day spoke to him.
‘How do you do, sir? Isn’t this a nice day?’ she called
cheerily, as she approached him.
The man threw a hurried glance about him, then stopped
uncertainly.
‘Did you speak—to me?’ he asked in a sharp voice.
‘Yes, sir,’ beamed Pollyanna. ‘I say, it’s a nice day, isn’t it?’

‘Eh? Oh! Humph!’ he grunted; and strode on again.
Pollyanna laughed. He was such a funny man, she
thought.
The next day she saw him again.
‘ ‘Tisn’t quite so nice as yesterday, but it’s pretty nice,’ she
called out cheerfully.
‘Eh? Oh! Humph!’ grunted the man as before; and once
again Pollyanna laughed happily.
When for the third time Pollyanna accosted him in much
the same manner, the man stopped abruptly.
‘See here, child, who are you, and why are you speaking
to me every day?’
‘I’m Pollyanna Whittier, and I thought you looked lone-
some. I’m so glad you stopped. Now we’re introduced—only
I don’t know your name yet.’
‘Well, of all the—‘ The man did not finish his sentence,
but strode on faster than ever.
Pollyanna looked after him with a disappointed droop to
her usually smiling lips.
‘Maybe he didn’t understand—but that was only half an
introduction. I don’t know HIS name, yet,’ she murmured,
as she proceeded on her way.
Pollyanna was carrying calf’s-foot jelly to Mrs. Snow to-
day. Miss Polly Harrington always sent something to Mrs.
Snow once a week. She said she thought that it was her duty,
inasmuch as Mrs. Snow was poor, sick, and a member of
her church—it was the duty of all the church members to
look out for her, of course. Miss Polly did her duty by Mrs.
Snow usually on Thursday afternoons—not personally, but
60 Pollyanna
through Nancy. To-day Pollyanna had begged the privilege,
and Nancy had promptly given it to her in accordance with
Miss Polly’s orders.
‘And it’s glad that I am ter get rid of it,’ Nancy had de-
clared in private afterwards to Pollyanna; ‘though it’s a
shame ter be tuckin’ the job off on ter you, poor lamb, so
it is, it is!’
‘But I’d love to do it, Nancy.’
‘Well, you won’t—after you’ve done it once,’ predicted
Nancy, sourly.
‘Why not?’
‘Because nobody does. If folks wa’n’t sorry for her there
wouldn’t a soul go near her from mornin’ till night, she’s
that cantankerous. All is, I pity her daughter what HAS ter
take care of her.’
‘But, why, Nancy?’
Nancy shrugged her shoulders.
‘Well, in plain words, it’s just that nothin’ what ever has
happened, has happened right in Mis’ Snow’s eyes. Even the
days of the week ain’t run ter her mind. If it’s Monday she’s
bound ter say she wished ‘twas Sunday; and if you take her
jelly you’re pretty sure ter hear she wanted chicken—but if
you DID bring her chicken, she’d be jest hankerin’ for lamb
broth!’
‘Why, what a funny woman,’ laughed Pollyanna. ‘I think
I shall like to go to see her. She must be so surprising and—
and different. I love DIFFERENT folks.’
‘Humph! Well, Mis’ Snow’s ‘different,’ all right—I hope,
for the sake of the rest of us!’ 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 out-
lined, 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
62 Pollyanna
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 wom-
an 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 rue-
fully.
‘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, sympa-
thetically. ‘But wait—just let me show you,’ she exclaimed,
64 Pollyanna
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 Pol-
lyanna, 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, comb-
ing 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 tin-
gle 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 Pollyan-
na, 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 it then, wouldn’t it?’
she mused aloud.
‘Do what?’
‘Be glad about things.’
‘Be glad about things—when you’re sick in bed all your
days? Well, I should say it would,’ retorted Mrs. Snow. ‘If
you don’t think so, just tell me something to be glad about;
that’s all!’
66 Pollyanna
To Mrs. Snow’s unbounded amazement, Pollyanna
sprang to her feet and clapped her hands.
‘Oh, goody! That’ll be a hard one—won’t it? I’ve got to go,
now, but I’ll think and think all the way home; and may-
be the next time I come I can tell it to you. Good-by. I’ve
had a lovely time! Good-by,’ she called again, as she tripped
through the doorway.
‘Well, I never! Now, what does she mean by that?’ ejac-
ulated Mrs. Snow, staring after her visitor. By and by she
turned her head and picked up the mirror, eyeing her re-
flection critically.
‘That little thing HAS got a knack with hair and no mis-
take,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘I declare, I didn’t
know it could look so pretty. But then, what’s the use?’ she
sighed, dropping the little glass into the bedclothes, and
rolling her head on the pillow fretfully.
A little later, when Milly, Mrs. Snow’s daughter, came in,
the mirror still lay among the bedclothes it had been care-
fully hidden from sight.
‘Why, mother—the curtain is up!’ cried Milly, dividing
her amazed stare between the window and the pink in her
mother’s hair.
‘Well, what if it is?’ snapped the sick woman. ‘I needn’t
stay in the dark all my life, if I am sick, need I?’
‘Why, n-no, of course not,’ rejoined Milly, in hasty concili-
ation, as she reached for the medicine bottle. ‘It’s only—well,
you know very well that I’ve tried to get you to have a lighter
room for ages and you wouldn’t.’
There was no reply to this. Mrs. Snow was picking at the

lace on her nightgown. At last she spoke fretfully.
‘I should think SOMEBODY might give me a new night-
dress—instead of lamb broth, for a change!
‘Why—mother!’
No wonder Milly quite gasped aloud with bewilderment.
In the drawer behind her at that moment lay two new night-
dresses that Milly for months had been vainly urging her
mother to wear.
68 Pollyanna
CHAPTER IX. WHICH
TELLS OF THE MAN
I t rained the next time Pollyanna saw the Man. She greet-
ed him, however, with a bright smile.
‘It isn’t so nice to-day, is it?’ she called blithesomely. ‘I’m
glad it doesn’t rain always, anyhow!’
The man did not even grunt this time, nor turn his head.
Pollyanna decided that of course he did not hear her. The
next time, therefore (which happened to be the following
day), she spoke up louder. She thought it particularly nec-
essary to do this, anyway, for the Man was striding along,
his hands behind his back, and his eyes on the ground—
which seemed, to Pollyanna, preposterous in the face of the
glorious sunshine and the freshly-washed morning air: Pol-
lyanna, as a special treat, was on a morning errand to-day.
‘How do you do?’ she chirped. ‘I’m so glad it isn’t yester-
day, aren’t you?
The man stopped abruptly. There was an angry scowl on
his face.
‘See here, little girl, we might just as well settle this thing
right now, once for all,’ he began testily. ‘I’ve got something
besides the weather to think of. I don’t know whether the
sun shines or not.’ Pollyanna beamed joyously.
‘No, sir; I thought you didn’t. That’s why I told you.’

‘Yes; well—Eh? What?’ he broke off sharply, in sudden
understanding of her words.
‘I say, that’s why I told you—so you would notice it, you
know—that the sun shines, and all that. I knew you’d be
glad it did if you only stopped to think of it—and you didn’t
look a bit as if you WERE thinking of it!’
‘Well, of all the—‘ ejaculated the man, with an oddly
impotent gesture. He started forward again, but after the
second step he turned back, still frowning.
‘See here, why don’t you find some one your own age to
talk to?’
‘I’d like to, sir, but there aren’t any ‘round here, Nancy
says. Still, I don’t mind so very much. I like old folks just
as well, maybe better, sometimes—being used to the Ladies’
Aid, so.’
‘Humph! The Ladies’ Aid, indeed! Is that what you took
me for?’ The man’s lips were threatening to smile, but the
scowl above them was still trying to hold them grimly
stern.
‘Oh, no, sir. You don’t look a mite like a Ladies’ Aider—
not but that you’re just as good, of course—maybe better,’
she added in hurried politeness. ‘You see, I’m sure you’re
much nicer than you look!’
The man made a queer noise in his throat.
‘Well, of all the—‘ he ejaculated again, as he turned and
strode on as before.
The next time Pollyanna met the Man, his eyes were gaz-
ing straight into hers, with a quizzical directness that made
70 Pollyanna
his face look really pleasant, Pollyanna thought.
‘Good afternoon,’ he greeted her a little stiffly. ‘Perhaps
I’d better say right away that I KNOW the sun is shining
to-day.’
‘But you don’t have to tell me,’ nodded Pollyanna, bright-
ly. ‘I KNEW you knew it just as soon as I saw you.’
‘Oh, you did, did you?’
‘Yes, sir; I saw it in your eyes, you know, and in your
smile.’
‘Humph!’ grunted the man, as he passed on.
The Man always spoke to Pollyanna after this, and fre-
quently he spoke first, though usually he said little but
‘good afternoon.’ Even that, however, was a great surprise
to Nancy, who chanced to be with Pollyanna one day when
the greeting was given.
‘Sakes alive, Miss Pollyanna,’ she gasped, ‘did that man
SPEAK TO YOU?’
‘Why, yes, he always does—now,’ smiled Pollyanna.
‘ ‘He always does’! Goodness! Do you know who—he—
is?’ demanded Nancy.
Pollyanna frowned and shook her head.
‘I reckon he forgot to tell me one day. You see, I did my
part of the introducing, but he didn’t.’
Nancy’s eyes widened.
‘But he never speaks ter anybody, child—he hain’t for
years, I guess, except when he just has to, for business, and
all that. He’s John Pendleton. He lives all by himself in the
big house on Pendleton Hill. He won’t even have any one
‘round ter cook for him—comes down ter the hotel for his

meals three times a day. I know Sally Miner, who waits
on him, and she says he hardly opens his head enough ter
tell what he wants ter eat. She has ter guess it more’n half
the time—only it’ll be somethin’ CHEAP! She knows that
without no tellin’.’
Pollyanna nodded sympathetically.
‘I know. You have to look for cheap things when you’re
poor. Father and I took meals out a lot. We had beans and
fish balls most generally. We used to say how glad we were
we liked beans—that is, we said it specially when we were
looking at the roast turkey place, you know, that was sixty
cents. Does Mr. Pendleton like beans?’
‘Like ‘em! What if he does—or don’t? Why, Miss Polly-
anna, he ain’t poor. He’s got loads of money, John Pendleton
has—from his father. There ain’t nobody in town as rich as
he is. He could eat dollar bills, if he wanted to—and not
know it.’
Pollyanna giggled.
‘As if anybody COULD eat dollar bills and not know it,
Nancy, when they come to try to chew ‘em!’
‘Ho! I mean he’s rich enough ter do it,’ shrugged Nancy.
‘He ain’t spendin’ his money, that’s all. He’s a-savin’ of it.’
‘Oh, for the heathen,’ surmised Pollyanna. ‘How perfectly
splendid! That’s denying yourself and taking up your cross.
I know; father told me.’
Nancy’s lips parted abruptly, as if there were angry
words all ready to come; but her eyes, resting on Pollyan-
na’s jubilantly trustful face, saw something that prevented
the words being spoken.
72 Pollyanna
‘Humph!’ she vouchsafed. Then, showing her old-time
interest, she went on: ‘But, say, it is queer, his speakin’ to
you, honestly, Miss Pollyanna. He don’t speak ter no one;
and he lives all alone in a great big lovely house all full of
jest grand things, they say. Some says he’s crazy, and some
jest cross; and some says he’s got a skeleton in his closet.’
‘Oh, Nancy!’ shuddered Pollyanna. ‘How can he keep
such a dreadful thing? I should think he’d throw it away!’
Nancy chuckled. That Pollyanna had taken the skeleton
literally instead of figuratively, she knew very well; but, per-
versely, she refrained from correcting the mistake.
‘And EVERYBODY says he’s mysterious,’ she went on.
‘Some years he jest travels, week in and week out, and it’s al-
ways in heathen 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
T he 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, advanc-
ing 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?’
74 Pollyanna
‘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, how-
ever, 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 wom-
an, 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 think-
ing 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 mer-
rily.
There was no reply. The sick woman seemed to be try-
ing—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, fall-
ing 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 re-
joined 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 some-
76 Pollyanna
thing 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—awful-
ly 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?’
‘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 agree-
able 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 mission-
ary 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.
78 Pollyanna
‘Good-by,’ flung Pollyanna over her shoulder, as she
reached the door. ‘I’m awfully sorry about the hair—I want-
ed 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—oth-
erwise 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 disconcert-
ing 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 Pol-
ly, 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, some-
thing to show for it, Pollyanna. What an extraordinary
child you are!’
‘Then just being glad isn’t pro-fi-ta-ble?’ questioned Pol-
lyanna, 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 terse-
ly. 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 compa-
ny,’ 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
80 Pollyanna
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 plan-
ning 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 pic-
tures; 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.’
Pollyanna did not stop to hear the end of this sentence.
At the imminent risk of being dashed headlong, she was fly-
ing down-stairs, two steps at a time.
Bang went two doors and a chair before Pollyanna at last
82 Pollyanna
reached her goal—Aunt Polly.
‘Oh, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, did you mean it, really? Why,
that room’s got EVERYTHING—the carpet and curtains
and three pictures, besides the one outdoors, too, ‘cause the
windows look the same way. Oh, Aunt Polly!’
‘Very well, Pollyanna. I am gratified that you like the
change, of course; but if you think so much of all those
things, I trust you will take proper care of them; that’s all.
Pollyanna, please pick up that chair; and you have banged
two doors in the last half-minute.’ Miss Polly spoke sternly,
all the more sternly because, for some inexplicable reason,
she felt inclined to cry—and Miss Polly was not used to feel-
ing inclined to cry.
Pollyanna picked up the chair.
‘Yes’m; I know I banged ‘em—those doors,’ she admitted
cheerfully. ‘You see I’d just found out about the room, and
I reckon you’d have banged doors if—‘ Pollyanna stopped
short and eyed her aunt with new interest. ‘Aunt Polly, DID
you ever bang doors?’
‘I hope—not, Pollyanna!’ Miss Polly’s voice was properly
shocked.
‘Why, Aunt Polly, what a shame!’ Pollyanna’s face ex-
pressed only concerned sympathy.
‘A shame!’ repeated Aunt Polly, too dazed to say more.
‘Why, yes. You see, if you’d felt like banging doors you’d
have banged ‘em, of course; and if you didn’t, that must
have meant that you weren’t ever glad over anything—or
you would have banged ‘em. You couldn’t have helped it.
And I’m so sorry you weren’t ever glad over anything!’

‘PollyANna!’ gasped the lady; but Pollyanna was gone,
and only the distant bang of the attic-stairway door an-
swered for her. Pollyanna had gone to help Nancy bring
down ‘her things.’
Miss Polly, in the sitting room, felt vaguely disturbed;—
but then, of course she HAD been glad—over some things!
84 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XI.
INTRODUCING JIMMY
A ugust came. August brought several surprises and

some changes—none of which, however, were really
a surprise to Nancy. Nancy, since Pollyanna’s arrival, had
come to look for surprises and changes.
First there was the kitten.
Pollyanna found the kitten mewing pitifully some dis-
tance down the road. When systematic questioning of the
neighbors failed to find any one who claimed it, Pollyanna
brought it home at once, as a matter of course.
‘And I was glad I didn’t find any one who owned it, too,’
she told her aunt in happy confidence; ‘ ‘cause I wanted to
bring it home all the time. I love kitties. I knew you’d be
glad to let it live here.’
Miss Polly looked at the forlorn little gray bunch of ne-
glected misery in Pollyanna’s arms, and shivered: Miss Polly
did not care for cats—not even pretty, healthy, clean ones.
‘Ugh! Pollyanna! What a dirty little beast! And it’s sick,
I’m sure, and all mangy and fleay.’
‘I know it, poor little thing,’ crooned Pollyanna, tenderly,
looking into the little creature’s frightened eyes. ‘And it’s all
trembly, too, it’s so scared. You see it doesn’t know, yet, that
we’re going to keep it, of course.’

‘No—nor anybody else,’ retorted Miss Polly, with mean-
ing emphasis.
‘Oh, yes, they do,’ nodded Pollyanna, entirely misunder-
standing her aunt’s words. ‘I told everybody we should keep
it, if I didn’t find where it belonged. I knew you’d be glad to
have it—poor little lonesome thing!’
Miss Polly opened her lips and tried to speak; but in vain.
The curious helpless feeling that had been hers so often since
Pollyanna’s arrival, had her now fast in its grip.
‘Of course I knew,’ hurried on Pollyanna, gratefully, ‘that
you wouldn’t let a dear little lonesome kitty go hunting for
a home when you’d just taken ME in; and I said so to Mrs.
Ford when she asked if you’d let me keep it. Why, I had the
Ladies’ Aid, you know, and kitty didn’t have anybody. I
knew you’d feel that way,’ she nodded happily, as she ran
from the room.
‘But, Pollyanna, Pollyanna,’ remonstrated Miss Polly. ‘I
don’t—‘ But Pollyanna was already halfway to the kitchen,
calling:
‘Nancy, Nancy, just see this dear little kitty that Aunt
Polly is going to bring up along with me!’ And Aunt Polly,
in the sitting room—who abhorred cats—fell back in her
chair with a gasp of dismay, powerless to remonstrate.
The next day it was a dog, even dirtier and more forlorn,
perhaps, than was the kitten; and again Miss Polly, to her
dumfounded amazement, found herself figuring as a kind
protector and an angel of mercy—a role that Pollyanna so
unhesitatingly thrust upon her as a matter of course, that
the woman—who abhorred dogs even more than she did
86 Pollyanna
cats, if possible—found herself as before, powerless to re-
monstrate.
When, in less than a week, however, Pollyanna brought
home a small, ragged boy, and confidently claimed the same
protection for him, Miss Polly did have something to say. It
happened after this wise.
On a pleasant Thursday morning Pollyanna had been
taking calf’s-foot jelly again to Mrs. Snow. Mrs. Snow and
Pollyanna were the best of friends now. Their friendship
had started from the third visit Pollyanna had made, the
one after she had told Mrs. Snow of the game. Mrs. Snow
herself was playing the game now, with Pollyanna. To be
sure, she was not playing it very well—she had been sorry
for everything for so long, that it was not easy to be glad for
anything now. But under Pollyanna’s cheery instructions
and merry laughter at her mistakes, she was learning fast.
To-day, even, to Pollyanna’s huge delight, she had said that
she was glad Pollyanna brought calf’s-foot jelly, because
that was just what she had been wanting—she did not know
that Milly, at the front door, had told Pollyanna that the
minister’s wife had already that day sent over a great bowl-
ful of that same kind of jelly.
Pollyanna was thinking of this now when suddenly she
saw the boy.
The boy was sitting in a disconsolate little heap by the
roadside, whittling half-heartedly at a small stick.
‘Hullo,’ smiled Pollyanna, engagingly.
The boy glanced up, but he looked away again, at once.
‘Hullo yourself,’ he mumbled.

Pollyanna laughed.
‘Now you don’t look as if you’d be glad even for calf’s-
foot jelly,’ she chuckled, stopping before him.
The boy stirred restlessly, gave her a surprised look, and
began to whittle again at his stick, with the dull, broken-
bladed knife in his hand.
Pollyanna hesitated, then dropped herself comfortably
down on the grass near him. In spite of Pollyanna’s brave
assertion that she was ‘used to Ladies’ Aiders,’ and ‘didn’t
mind,’ she had sighed at times for some companion of her
own age. Hence her determination to make the most of this
one.
‘My name’s Pollyanna Whittier,’ she began pleasantly.
‘What’s yours?’
Again the boy stirred restlessly. He even almost got to his
feet. But he settled back.
‘Jimmy Bean,’ he grunted with ungracious indifference.
‘Good! Now we’re introduced. I’m glad you did your
part—some folks don’t, you know. I live at Miss Polly Har-
rington’s house. Where do you live?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Nowhere! Why, you can’t do that—everybody lives
somewhere,’ asserted Pollyanna.
‘Well, I don’t—just now. I’m huntin’ up a new place.’
‘Oh! Where is it?’
The boy regarded her with scornful eyes.
‘Silly! As if I’d be a-huntin’ for it—if I knew!’
Pollyanna tossed her head a little. This was not a nice boy,
and she did not like to be called ‘silly.’ Still, he was some-
88 Pollyanna
body besides—old folks. Where did you live—before?’ she
queried.
‘Well, if you ain’t the beat’em for askin’ questions!’ sighed
the boy impatiently.
‘I have to be,’ retorted Pollyanna calmly, ‘else I couldn’t
find out a thing about you. If you’d talk more I wouldn’t
talk so much.’
The boy gave a short laugh. It was a sheepish laugh, and
not quite a willing one; but his face looked a little pleasanter
when he spoke this time.
‘All right then—here goes! I’m Jimmy Bean, and I’m ten
years old goin’ on eleven. I come last year ter live at the Or-
phans’ Home; but they’ve got so many kids there ain’t much
room for me, an’ I wa’n’t never wanted, anyhow, I don’t be-
lieve. So I’ve quit. I’m goin’ ter live somewheres else—but I
hain’t found the place, yet. I’d LIKE a home—jest a common
one, ye know, with a mother in it, instead of a Matron. If ye
has a home, ye has folks; an’ I hain’t had folks since—dad
died. So I’m a-huntin’ now. I’ve tried four houses, but—they
didn’t want me—though I said I expected ter work, ‘course.
There! Is that all you want ter know?’ The boy’s voice had
broken a little over the last two sentences.
‘Why, what a shame!’ sympathized Pollyanna. ‘And didn’t
there anybody want you? O dear! I know just how you feel,
because after—after my father died, too, there wasn’t any-
body but the Ladies’ Aid for me, until Aunt Polly said she’d
take—‘ Pollyanna stopped abruptly. The dawning of a won-
derful idea began to show in her face.
‘Oh, I know just the place for you,’ she cried. ‘Aunt Polly’ll

take you—I know she will! Didn’t she take me? And didn’t
she take Fluffy and Buffy, when they didn’t have any one to
love them, or any place to go?—and they’re only cats and
dogs. Oh, come, I know Aunt Polly’ll take you! You don’t
know how good and kind she is!
Jimmy Bean’s thin little face brightened.
‘Honest Injun? Would she, now? I’d work, ye know, an’
I’m real strong!’ He bared a small, bony arm.
‘Of course she would! Why, my Aunt Polly is the nic-
est lady in the world—now that my mama has gone to be a
Heaven angel. And there’s rooms—heaps of ‘em,’ she con-
tinued, springing to her feet, and tugging at his arm. ‘It’s
an awful big house. Maybe, though,’ she added a little anx-
iously, as they hurried on, ‘maybe you’ll have to sleep in the
attic room. I did, at first. But there’s screens there now, so
‘twon’t be so hot, and the flies can’t get in, either, to bring
in the germ-things on their feet. Did you know about that?
It’s perfectly lovely! Maybe she’ll let you read the book if
you’re good—I mean, if you’re bad. And you’ve got freckles,
too,’—with a critical glance—‘so you’ll be glad there isn’t
any looking-glass; and the outdoor picture is nicer than any
wall-one could be, so you won’t mind sleeping in that room
at all, I’m sure,’ panted Pollyanna, finding suddenly that she
needed the rest of her breath for purposes other than talk-
ing.
‘Gorry!’ exclaimed Jimmy Bean tersely and uncompre-
hendingly, but admiringly. Then he added: ‘I shouldn’t think
anybody who could talk like that, runnin’, would need ter
ask no questions ter fill up time with!’
90 Pollyanna
Pollyanna laughed.
‘Well, anyhow, you can be glad of that,’ she retorted; ‘for
when I’m talking, YOU don’t have to!’
When the house was reached, Pollyanna unhesitating-
ly piloted her companion straight into the presence of her
amazed aunt.
‘Oh, Aunt Polly,’ she triumphed. ‘just look a-here! I’ve got
something ever so much nicer, even, than Fluffy and Buffy
for you to bring up. It’s a real live boy. He won’t mind a bit
sleeping in the attic, at first, you know, and he says he’ll
work; but I shall need him the most of the time to play with,
I reckon.’
Miss Polly grew white, then very red. She did not quite
understand; but she thought she understood enough.
‘Pollyanna, what does this mean? Who is this dirty little
boy? Where did you find him?’ she demanded sharply.
The ‘dirty little boy’ fell back a step and looked toward
the door. Pollyanna laughed merrily.
‘There, if I didn’t forget to tell you his name! I’m as bad as
the Man. And he is dirty, too, isn’t he?—I mean, the boy is—
just like Fluffy and Buffy were when you took them in. But
I reckon he’ll improve all right by washing, just as they did,
and—Oh, I ‘most forgot again,’ she broke off with a laugh.
‘This is Jimmy Bean, Aunt Polly.’
‘Well, what is he doing here?’
‘Why, Aunt Polly, I just told you!’ Pollyanna’s eyes were
wide with surprise. ‘He’s for you. I brought him home—so
he could live here, you know. He wants a home and folks. I
told him how good you were to me, and to Fluffy and Buffy,

and that I knew you would be to him, because of course he’s
even nicer than cats and dogs.’
Miss Polly dropped back in her chair and raised a shak-
ing hand to her throat. The old helplessness was threatening
once more to overcome her. With a visible struggle, how-
ever, Miss Polly pulled herself suddenly erect.
‘That will do, Pollyanna. This is a little the most absurd
thing you’ve done yet. As if tramp cats and mangy dogs
weren’t bad enough but you must needs bring home ragged
little beggars from the street, who—‘
There was a sudden stir from the boy. His eyes flashed
and his chin came up. With two strides of his sturdy little
legs he confronted Miss Polly fearlessly.
‘I ain’t a beggar, marm, an’ I don’t want nothin’ o’ you. I
was cal’latin’ ter work, of course, fur my board an’ keep. I
wouldn’t have come ter your old house, anyhow, if this ‘ere
girl hadn’t ‘a’ made me, a-tellin’ me how you was so good an’
kind that you’d be jest dyin’ ter take me in. So, there!’ And
he wheeled about and stalked from the room with a dignity
that would have been absurd had it not been so pitiful.
‘Oh, Aunt Polly,’ choked Pollyanna. ‘Why, I thought
you’d be GLAD to have him here! I’m sure, I should think
you’d be glad—‘
Miss Polly raised her hand with a peremptory gesture of
silence. Miss Polly’s nerves had snapped at last. The ‘good
and kind’ of the boy’s words were still ringing in her ears,
and the old helplessness was almost upon her, she knew. Yet
she rallied her forces with the last atom of her will power.
‘Pollyanna,’ she cried sharply, ‘WILL you stop using
92 Pollyanna
that everlasting word ‘glad’! It’s ‘glad’—‘glad’—‘glad’ from
morning till night until I think I shall grow wild!’
From sheer amazement Pollyanna’s jaw dropped.
‘Why, Aunt Polly,’ she breathed, ‘I should think you’d be
glad to have me gl—Oh!’ she broke off, clapping her hand to
her lips and hurrying blindly from the room.
Before the boy had reached the end of the driveway, Pol-
lyanna overtook him.
‘Boy! Boy! Jimmy Bean, I want you to know how—how
sorry I am,’ she panted, catching him with a detaining
hand.
‘Sorry nothin’! I ain’t blamin’ you,’ retorted the boy, sul-
lenly. ‘But I ain’t no beggar!’ he added, with sudden spirit.
‘Of course you aren’t! But you mustn’t blame auntie,’ ap-
pealed Pollyanna. ‘Probably I didn’t do the introducing
right, anyhow; and I reckon I didn’t tell her much who you
were. She is good and kind, really—she’s always been; but I
probably didn’t explain it right. I do wish I could find some
place for you, though!’
The boy shrugged his shoulders and half turned away.
‘Never mind. I guess I can find one myself. I ain’t no beg-
gar, you know.’
Pollyanna was frowning thoughtfully. Of a sudden she
turned, her face illumined.
‘Say, I’ll tell you what I WILL do! The Ladies’ Aid meets
this afternoon. I heard Aunt Polly say so. I’ll lay your case
before them. That’s what father always did, when he want-
ed anything—educating the heathen and new carpets, you
know.’

The boy turned fiercely.
‘Well, I ain’t a heathen or a new carpet. Besides—what is
a Ladies’ Aid?’
Pollyanna stared in shocked disapproval.
‘Why, Jimmy Bean, wherever have you been brought
up?—not to know what a Ladies’ Aid is!’
‘Oh, all right—if you ain’t tellin’,’ grunted the boy, turn-
ing and beginning to walk away indifferently.
Pollyanna sprang to his side at once.
‘It’s—it’s—why, it’s just a lot of ladies that meet and sew
and give suppers and raise money and—and talk; that’s
what a Ladies’ Aid is. They’re awfully kind—that is, most
of mine was, back home. I haven’t seen this one here, but
they’re always good, I reckon. I’m going to tell them about
you this afternoon.’
Again the boy turned fiercely.
‘Not much you will! Maybe you think I’m goin’ ter stand
‘round an’ hear a whole LOT o’ women call me a beggar, in-
stead of jest ONE! Not much!’
‘Oh, but you wouldn’t be there,’ argued Pollyanna, quick-
ly. ‘I’d go alone, of course, and tell them.’
‘You would?’
‘Yes; and I’d tell it better this time,’ hurried on Pollyanna,
quick to see the signs of relenting in the boy’s face. ‘And
there’d be some of ‘em, I know, that would be glad to give
you a home.’
‘I’d work—don’t forget ter say that,’ cautioned the boy.
‘Of course not,’ promised Pollyanna, happily, sure now
that her point was gained. ‘Then I’ll let you know to-mor-
94 Pollyanna
row.’
‘Where?’
‘By the road—where I found you to-day; near Mrs. Snow’s
house.’
‘All right. I’ll be there.’ The boy paused before he went on
slowly: ‘Maybe I’d better go back, then, for ter-night, ter the
Home. You see I hain’t no other place ter stay; and—and I
didn’t leave till this mornin’. I slipped out. I didn’t tell ‘em
I wasn’t comin’ back, else they’d pretend I couldn’t come—
though I’m thinkin’ they won’t do no worryin’ when I don’t
show up sometime. They ain’t like FOLKS, ye know. They
don’t CARE!’
‘I know,’ nodded Pollyanna, with understanding eyes.
‘But I’m sure, when I see you to-morrow, I’ll have just a com-
mon home and folks that do care all ready for you. Good-by!’
she called brightly, as she turned back toward the house.
In the sitting-room window at that moment, Miss Pol-
ly, who had been watching the two children, followed with
sombre eyes the boy until a bend of the road hid him from
sight. Then she sighed, turned, and walked listlesly up-
stairs—and Miss Polly did not usually move listlessly. In
her ears still was the boy’s scornful ‘you was so good and
kind.’ In her heart was a curious sense of desolation—as of
something lost.

CHAPTER XII. BEFORE
THE LADIES’ AID
D inner, which came at noon in the Harrington home-

stead, was a silent meal on the day of the Ladies’ Aid
meeting. Pollyanna, it is true, tried to talk; but she did not
make a success of it, chiefly because four times she was
obliged to break off a ‘glad’ in the middle of it, much to her
blushing discomfort. The fifth time it happened, Miss Polly
moved her head wearily.
‘There, there, child, say it, if you want to,’ she sighed. ‘I’m
sure I’d rather you did than not if it’s going to make all this
fuss.’
Pollyanna’s puckered little face cleared.
‘Oh, thank you. I’m afraid it would be pretty hard—not
to say it. You see I’ve played it so long.’
‘You’ve—what?’ demanded Aunt Polly.
‘Played it—the game, you know, that father—‘ Pollyan-
na stopped with a painful blush at finding herself so soon
again on forbidden ground.
Aunt Polly frowned and said nothing. The rest of the
meal was a silent one.
Pollyanna was not sorry to hear Aunt Polly tell the min-
ister’s wife over the telephone, a little later, that she would
not be at the Ladies’ Aid meeting that afternoon, owing to a
96 Pollyanna
headache. When Aunt Polly went up-stairs to her room and
closed the door, Pollyanna tried to be sorry for the head-
ache; but she could not help feeling glad that her aunt was
not to be present that afternoon when she laid the case of
Jimmy Bean before the Ladies’ Aid. She could not forget
that Aunt Polly had called Jimmy Bean a little beggar; and
she did not want Aunt Polly to call him that—before the
Ladies’ Aid.
Pollyanna knew that the Ladies’ Aid met at two o’clock
in the chapel next the church, not quite half a mile from
home. She planned her going, therefore, so that she should
get there a little before three.
‘I want them all to be there,’ she said to herself; ‘else the
very one that wasn’t there might be the one who would be
wanting to give Jimmy Bean a home; and, of course, two
o’clock always means three, really—to Ladies’ Aiders.’
Quietly, but with confident courage, Pollyanna ascended
the chapel steps, pushed open the door and entered the ves-
tibule. A soft babel of feminine chatter and laughter came
from the main room. Hesitating only a brief moment Pol-
lyanna pushed open one of the inner doors.
The chatter dropped to a surprised hush. Pollyanna ad-
vanced a little timidly. Now that the time had come, she felt
unwontedly shy. After all, these half-strange, half-familiar
faces about her were not her own dear Ladies’ Aid.
‘How do you do, Ladies’ Aiders?’ she faltered politely.
‘I’m Pollyanna Whittier. I—I reckon some of you know me,
maybe; anyway, I do YOU—only I don’t know you all to-
gether this way.’

The silence could almost be felt now. Some of the ladies
did know this rather extraordinary niece of their fellow-
member, and nearly all had heard of her; but not one of
them could think of anything to say, just then.
‘I—I’ve come to—to lay the case before you,’ stammered
Pollyanna, after a moment, unconsciously falling into her
father’s familiar phraseology.
There was a slight rustle.
‘Did—did your aunt send you, my dear? asked Mrs. Ford,
the minister’s wife.
Pollyanna colored a little.
‘Oh, no. I came all by myself. You see, I’m used to Ladies’
Aiders. It was Ladies’ Aiders that brought me up—with fa-
ther.’
Somebody tittered hysterically, and the minister’s wife
frowned.
‘Yes, dear. What is it?’
‘Well, it—it’s Jimmy Bean,’ sighed Pollyanna. ‘He hasn’t
any home except the Orphan one, and they’re full, and
don’t want him, anyhow, he thinks; so he wants another. He
wants one of the common kind, that has a mother instead of
a Matron in it—folks, you know, that’ll care. He’s ten years
old going on eleven. I thought some of you might like him—
to live with you, you know.’
‘Well, did you ever!’ murmured a voice, breaking the
dazed pause that followed Pollyanna’s words.
With anxious eyes Pollyanna swept the circle of faces
about her.
‘Oh, I forgot to say; he will work,’ she supplemented ea-
98 Pollyanna
gerly.
Still there was silence; then, coldly, one or two women
began to question her. After a time they all had the story
and began to talk among themselves, animatedly, not quite
pleasantly.
Pollyanna listened with growing anxiety. Some of what
was said she could not understand. She did gather, after a
time, however, that there was no woman there who had a
home to give him, though every woman seemed to think
that some of the others might take him, as there were sever-
al who had no little boys of their own already in their homes.
But there was no one who agreed herself to take him. Then
she heard the minister’s wife suggest timidly that they, as a
society, might perhaps assume his support and education
instead of sending quite so much money this year to the
little boys in far-away India.
A great many ladies talked then, and several of them talk-
ed all at once, and even more loudly and more unpleasantly
than before. It seemed that their society was famous for its
offering to Hindu missions, and several said they should die
of mortification if it should be less this year. Some of what
was said at this time Pollyanna again thought she could not
have understood, too, for it sounded almost as if they did
not care at all what the money DID, so long as the sum op-
posite the name of their society in a certain ‘report’ ‘headed
the list’—and of course that could not be what they meant
at all! But it was all very confusing, and not quite pleasant,
so that Pollyanna was glad, indeed, when at last she found
herself outside in the hushed, sweet air—only she was very

sorry, too: for she knew it was not going to be easy, or any-
thing but sad, to tell Jimmy Bean to-morrow that the Ladies’
Aid had decided that they would rather send all their money
to bring up the little India boys than to save out enough to
bring up one little boy in their own town, for which they
would not get ‘a bit of credit in the report,’ according to the
tall lady who wore spectacles.
‘Not but that it’s good, of course, to send money to the
heathen, and I shouldn’t want ‘em not to send SOME there,’
sighed Pollyanna to herself, as she trudged sorrowfully
along. ‘But they acted as if little boys HERE weren’t any ac-
count—only little boys ‘way off. I should THINK, though,
they’d rather see Jimmy Bean grow—than just a report!
100 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XIII. IN
PENDLETON WOODS
P ollyanna had not turned her steps toward home, when

she left the chapel. She had turned them, instead, to-
ward Pendleton Hill. It had been a hard day, for all it had
been a ‘vacation one’ (as she termed the infrequent days
when there was no sewing or cooking lesson), and Pollyan-
na was sure that nothing would do her quite so much good
as a walk through the green quiet of Pendleton Woods. Up
Pendleton Hill, therefore, she climbed steadily, in spite of
the warm sun on her back.
‘I don’t have to get home till half-past five, anyway,’ she
was telling herself; ‘and it’ll be so much nicer to go around
by the way of the woods, even if I do have to climb to get
there.’
It was very beautiful in the Pendleton Woods, as Polly-
anna knew by experience. But to-day it seemed even more
delightful than ever, notwithstanding her disappointment
over what she must tell Jimmy Bean to-morrow.
‘I wish they were up here—all those ladies who talked
so loud,’ sighed Pollyanna to herself, raising her eyes to the
patches of vivid blue between the sunlit green of the tree-
tops. ‘Anyhow, if they were up here, I just reckon they’d
change and take Jimmy Bean for their little boy, all right,’

she finished, secure in her conviction, but unable to give a
reason for it, even to herself.
Suddenly Pollyanna lifted her head and listened. A dog
had barked some distance ahead. A moment later he came
dashing toward her, still barking.
‘Hullo, doggie—hullo!’ Pollyanna snapped her fingers
at the dog and looked expectantly down the path. She had
seen the dog once before, she was sure. He had been then
with the Man, Mr. John Pendleton. She was looking now,
hoping to see him. For some minutes she watched eagerly,
but he did not appear. Then she turned her attention toward
the dog.
The dog, as even Pollyanna could see, was acting strange-
ly. He was still barking—giving little short, sharp yelps, as
if of alarm. He was running back and forth, too, in the path
ahead. Soon they reached a side path, and down this the
little dog fairly flew, only to come back at once, whining
and barking.
‘Ho! That isn’t the way home,’ laughed Pollyanna, still
keeping to the main path.
The little dog seemed frantic now. Back and forth, back
and forth, between Pollyanna and the side path he vibrat-
ed, barking and whining pitifully. Every quiver of his little
brown body, and every glance from his beseeching brown
eyes were eloquent with appeal—so eloquent that at last
Pollyanna understood, turned, and followed him.
Straight ahead, now, the little dog dashed madly; and it
was not long before Pollyanna came upon the reason for it
all: a man lying motionless at the foot of a steep, overhang-
102 Pollyanna
ing mass of rock a few yards from the side path.
A twig cracked sharply under Pollyanna’s foot, and the
man turned his head. With a cry of dismay Pollyanna ran
to his side.
‘Mr. Pendleton! Oh, are you hurt?’
‘Hurt? Oh, no! I’m just taking a siesta in the sunshine,’
snapped the man irritably. ‘See here, how much do you
know? What can you do? Have you got any sense?’
Pollyanna caught her breath with a little gasp, but—as
was her habit—she answered the questions literally, one by
one.
‘Why, Mr. Pendleton, I—I don’t know so very much, and
I can’t do a great many things; but most of the Ladies’ Aid-
ers, except Mrs. Rawson, said I had real good sense. I heard
‘em say so one day—they didn’t know I heard, though.’
The man smiled grimly.
‘There, there, child, I beg your pardon, I’m sure; it’s only
this confounded leg of mine. Now listen.’ He paused, and
with some difficulty reached his hand into his trousers
pocket and brought out a bunch of keys, singling out one
between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Straight through the
path there, about five minutes’ walk, is my house. This key
will admit you to the side door under the porte-cochere. Do
you know what a porte-cochere is?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. Auntie has one with a sun parlor over it.
That’s the roof I slept on—only I didn’t sleep, you know.
They found me.’
‘Eh? Oh! Well, when you get into the house, go straight
through the vestibule and hall to the door at the end. On

the big, flat-topped desk in the middle of the room you’ll
find a telephone. Do you know how to use a telephone?’
‘Oh, yes, sir! Why, once when Aunt Polly—
‘Never mind Aunt Polly now,’ cut in the man scowlingly,
as he tried to move himself a little.
‘Hunt up Dr. Thomas Chilton’s number on the card you’ll
find somewhere around there—it ought to be on the hook
down at the side, but it probably won’t be. You know a tele-
phone card, I suppose, when you see one!’
‘Oh, yes, sir! I just love Aunt Polly’s. There’s such a lot of
queer names, and—‘
‘Tell Dr. Chilton that John Pendleton is at the foot of Lit-
tle Eagle Ledge in Pendleton Woods with a broken leg, and
to come at once with a stretcher and two men. He’ll know
what to do besides that. Tell him to come by the path from
the house.’
‘A broken leg? Oh, Mr. Pendleton, how perfectly awful!’
shuddered Pollyanna. ‘But I’m so glad I came! Can’t I do—‘
‘Yes, you can—but evidently you won’t! WILL you go and
do what I ask and stop talking,’ moaned the man, faintly.
And, with a little sobbing cry, Pollyanna went.
Pollyanna did not stop now to look up at the patches of
blue between the sunlit tops of the trees. She kept her eyes
on the ground to make sure that no twig nor stone tripped
her hurrying feet.
It was not long before she came in sight of the house. She
had seen it before, though never so near as this. She was al-
most frightened now at the massiveness of the great pile of
gray stone with its pillared verandas and its imposing en-
104 Pollyanna
trance. Pausing only a moment, however, she sped across
the big neglected lawn and around the house to the side
door under the porte-cochere. Her fingers, stiff from their
tight clutch upon the keys, were anything but skilful in
their efforts to turn the bolt in the lock; but at last the heavy,
carved door swung slowly back on its hinges.
Pollyanna caught her breath. In spite of her feeling of
haste, she paused a moment and looked fearfully through
the vestibule to the wide, sombre hall beyond, her thoughts
in a whirl. This was John Pendleton’s house; the house of
mystery; the house into which no one but its master en-
tered; the house which sheltered, somewhere—a skeleton.
Yet she, Pollyanna, was expected to enter alone these fear-
some rooms, and telephone the, doctor that the master of
the house lay now—
With a little cry Pollyanna, looking neither to the right
nor the left, fairly ran through the hall to the door at the end
and opened it.
The room was large, and sombre with dark woods and
hangings like the hall; but through the west window the sun
threw a long shaft of gold across the floor, gleamed dully on
the tarnished brass andirons in the fireplace, and touched
the nickel of the telephone on the great desk in the middle
of the room. It was toward this desk that Pollyanna hur-
riedly tiptoed.
The telephone card was not on its hook; it was on the
floor. But Pollyanna found it, and ran her shaking forefin-
ger down through the C’s to ‘Chilton.’ In due time she had
Dr. Chilton himself at the other end of the wires, and was

tremblingly delivering her message and answering the doc-
tor’s terse, pertinent questions. This done, she hung up the
receiver and drew a long breath of relief.
Only a brief glance did Pollyanna give about her; then,
with a confused vision in her eyes of crimson draperies,
book-lined walls, a littered floor, an untidy desk, innu-
merable closed doors (any one of which might conceal a
skeleton), and everywhere dust, dust, dust, she fled back
through the hall to the great carved door, still half open as
she had left it.
In what seemed, even to the injured man, an incredibly
short time, Pollyanna was back in the woods at the man’s
side.
‘Well, what is the trouble? Couldn’t you get in?’ he de-
manded.
Pollyanna opened wide her eyes.
‘Why, of course I could! I’m HERE,’ she answered. ‘As if
I’d be here if I hadn’t got in! And the doctor will be right up
just as soon as possible with the men and things. He said
he knew just where you were, so I didn’t stay to show him. I
wanted to be with you.’
‘Did you?’ smiled the man, grimly. ‘Well, I can’t say I ad-
mire your taste. I should think you might find pleasanter
companions.’
‘Do you mean—because you’re so—cross?
‘Thanks for your frankness. Yes.’
‘But you’re only cross OUTSIDE—You arn’t cross inside
a bit!’
106 Pollyanna
‘Indeed! How do you know that?’ asked the man, trying
to change the position of his head without moving the rest
of his body.
‘Oh, lots of ways; there—like that—the way you act with
the dog,’ she added, pointing to the long, slender hand that
rested on the dog’s sleek head near him. ‘It’s funny how
dogs and cats know the insides of folks better than other
folks do, isn’t it? Say, I’m going to hold your head,’ she fin-
ished abruptly.
The man winced several times and groaned once; softly
while the change was being made; but in the end he found
Pollyanna’s lap a very welcome substitute for the rocky hol-
low in which his head had lain before.
‘Well, that is—better,’ he murmured faintly.
He did not speak again for some time. Pollyanna, watch-
ing his face, wondered if he were asleep. She did not think
he was. He looked as if his lips were tight shut to keep back
moans of pain. Pollyanna herself almost cried aloud as she
looked at his great, strong body lying there so helpless. One
hand, with fingers tightly clenched, lay outflung, motion-
less. The other, limply open, lay on the dog’s head. The dog,
his wistful, eager eyes on his master’s face, was motionless,
too.
Minute by minute the time passed. The sun dropped
lower in the west and the shadows grew deeper under the
trees. Pollyanna sat so still she hardly seemed to breathe.
A bird alighted fearlessly within reach of her hand, and a
squirrel whisked his bushy tail on a tree-branch almost un-
der her nose—yet with his bright little eyes all the while on

the motionless dog.
At last the dog pricked up his cars and whined softly;
then he gave a short, sharp bark. The next moment Pollyan-
na heard voices, and very soon their owners appeared three
men carrying a stretcher and various other articles.
The tallest of the party—a smooth-shaven, kind-eyed
man whom Pollyanna knew by sight as ‘Dr. Chilton’—ad-
vanced cheerily.
‘Well, my little lady, playing nurse?’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ smiled Pollyanna. ‘I’ve only held his head—I
haven’t given him a mite of medicine. But I’m glad I was
here.’
‘So am I,’ nodded the doctor, as he turned his absorbed
attention to the injured man.
108 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XIV. JUST A
MATTER OF JELLY
P ollyanna was a little late for supper on the night of the

accident to John Pendleton; but, as it happened, she es-
caped without reproof.
Nancy met her at the door.
‘Well, if I ain’t glad ter be settin’ my two eyes on you,’ she
sighed in obvious relief. ‘It’s half-past six!’
‘I know it,’ admitted Pollyanna anxiously; ‘but I’m not
to blame—truly I’m not. And I don’t think even Aunt Polly
will say I am, either.’
‘She won’t have the chance,’ retorted Nancy, with huge
satisfaction. ‘She’s gone.’
‘Gone!’ gasped Pollyanna. ‘You don’t mean that I’ve
driven her away?’ Through Pollyanna’s mind at the mo-
ment trooped remorseful memories of the morning with its
unwanted boy, cat, and dog, and its unwelcome ‘glad’ and
forbidden ‘father that would spring to her forgetful little
tongue. Oh, I DIDN’T drive her away?’
‘Not much you did,’ scoff ed Nancy. ‘Her cousin died sud-
denly down to Boston, and she had ter go. She had one o’
them yeller telegram letters after you went away this after-
noon, and she won’t be back for three days. Now I guess
we’re glad all right. We’ll be keepin’ house tergether, jest

you and me, all that time. We will, we will!’
‘Glad! Oh, Nancy, when it’s a funeral?’
‘Oh, but ‘twa’n’t the funeral I was glad for, Miss Polly-
anna. It was—‘ Nancy stopped abruptly. A shrewd twinkle
came into her eyes. ‘Why, Miss Pollyanna, as if it wa’n’t yer-
self that was teachin’ me ter play the game,’ she reproached
her gravely.
Pollyanna puckered her forehead into a troubled frown.
‘I can’t help it, Nancy,’ she argued with a shake of her
head. ‘It must be that there are some things that ‘tisn’t right
to play the game on—and I’m sure funerals is one of them.
There’s nothing in a funeral to be glad about.’
Nancy chuckled.
‘We can be glad ‘tain’t our’n,’ she observed demurely. But
Pollyanna did not hear. She had begun to tell of the accident;
and in a moment Nancy, open-mouthed, was listening.
At the appointed place the next afternoon, Pollyanna met
Jimmy Bean according to agreement. As was to be expected,
of course, Jimmy showed keen disappointment that the La-
dies’ Aid preferred a little India boy to himself.
‘Well, maybe ‘tis natural,’ he sighed. ‘Of course things
you don’t know about are always nicer’n things you do,
same as the pertater on ‘tother side of the plate is always
the biggest. But I wish I looked that way ter somebody ‘way
off. Wouldn’t it be jest great, now, if only somebody over in
India wanted ME?’
‘Why, of course! That’s the very thing, Jimmy! I’ll write
110 Pollyanna
to my Ladies’ Aiders about you. They aren’t over in India;
they’re only out West—but that’s awful far away, just the
same. I reckon you’d think so if you’d come all the way here
as I did!’
Jimmy’s face brightened.
‘Do you think they would—truly—take me?’ he asked.
‘Of course they would! Don’t they take little boys in India
to bring up? Well, they can just play you are the little India
boy this time. I reckon you’re far enough away to make a re-
port, all right. You wait. I’ll write ‘em. I’ll write Mrs. White.
No, I’ll write Mrs. Jones. Mrs. White has got the most mon-
ey, but Mrs. Jones gives the most—which is kind of funny,
isn’t it?—when you think of it. But I reckon some of the Aid-
ers will take you.’
‘All right—but don’t furgit ter say I’ll work fur my board
an’ keep,’ put in Jimmy. ‘I ain’t no beggar, an’ biz’ness is
biz’ness, even with Ladies’ Aiders, I’m thinkin’.’ He hesitat-
ed, then added: ‘An’ I s’pose I better stay where I be fur a
spell yet—till you hear.’
‘Of course,’ nodded Pollyanna emphatically. ‘Then I’ll
know just where to find you. And they’ll take you—I’m sure
you’re far enough away for that. Didn’t Aunt Polly take—
Say!’ she broke off, suddenly, ‘DO you suppose I was Aunt
Polly’s little girl from India?’
‘Well, if you ain’t the queerest kid,’ grinned Jimmy, as he
turned away.
It was about a week after the accident in Pendleton
Woods that Pollyanna said to her aunt one morning:
‘Aunt Polly, please would you mind very much if I took

Mrs. Snow’s calf’s-foot jelly this week to some one else? I’m
sure Mrs. Snow wouldn’t—this once.’
‘Dear me, Pollyanna, what ARE you up to now? sighed
her aunt. ‘You ARE the most extraordinary child!’
Pollyanna frowned a little anxiously.
‘Aunt Polly, please, what is extraordinary? If you’re EX-
traordinary you can’t be ORdinary, can you?’
‘You certainly can not.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, then. I’m glad I’m EXtraordinary,’
sighed Pollyanna, her face clearing. ‘You see, Mrs. White
used to say Mrs. Rawson was a very ordinary woman—and
she disliked Mrs. Rawson something awful. They were al-
ways fight—I mean, father had—that is, I mean, WE had
more trouble keeping peace between them than we did be-
tween any of the rest of the Aiders,’ corrected Pollyanna, a
little breathless from her efforts to steer between the Scyl-
la of her father’s past commands in regard to speaking of
church quarrels, and the Charybdis of her aunt’s present
commands in regard to speaking of her father.
‘Yes, yes; well, never mind,’ interposed Aunt Polly, a trifle
impatiently. ‘You do run on so, Pollyanna, and no matter
what we’re talking about you always bring up at those La-
dies’ Aiders!’
‘Yes’m,’ smiled Pollyanna, cheerfully, ‘I reckon I do, may-
be. But you see they used to bring me up, and—‘
‘That will do, Pollyanna,’ interrupted a cold voice. ‘Now
what is it about this jelly?’
‘Nothing, Aunt Polly, truly, that you would mind, I’m
sure. You let me take jelly to HER, so I thought you would
112 Pollyanna
to HIM—this once. You see, broken legs aren’t like—like
lifelong invalids, so his won’t last forever as Mrs. Snow’s
does, and she can have all the rest of the things after just
once or twice.’
‘ ‘Him’? ‘He’? ‘Broken leg’? What are you talking about,
Pollyanna?’
Pollyanna stared; then her face relaxed.
‘Oh, I forgot. I reckon you didn’t know. You see, it hap-
pened while you were gone. It was the very day you went
that I found him in the woods, you know; and I had to un-
lock his house and telephone for the men and the doctor,
and hold his head, and everything. And of course then I
came away and haven’t seen him since. But when Nancy
made the jelly for Mrs. Snow this week I thought how nice
it would be if I could take it to him instead of her, just this
once. Aunt Polly, may I?’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so,’ acquiesced Miss Polly, a little wea-
rily. ‘Who did you say he was?’
‘The Man. I mean, Mr. John Pendleton.’
Miss Polly almost sprang from her chair.
‘JOHN PENDLETON!’
‘Yes. Nancy told me his name. Maybe you know him.’
Miss Polly did not answer this. Instead she asked:
‘Do YOU know him?
Pollyanna nodded.
‘Oh, yes. He always speaks and smiles—now. He’s only
cross OUTSIDE, you know. I’ll go and get the jelly. Nancy
had it ‘most fixed when I came in,’ finished Pollyanna, al-
ready halfway across the room.

‘Pollyanna, wait! Miss Polly’s voice was suddenly very
stern. I’ve changed my mind. I would prefer that Mrs. Snow
had that jelly to-day—as usual. That is all. You may go
now.’
‘Oh, but Aunt Polly, HERS will last. She can always be
sick and have things, you know; but his is just a broken leg,
and legs don’t last—I mean, broken ones. He’s had it a whole
week now.’
‘Yes, I remember. I heard Mr. John Pendleton had met
with an accident,’ said Miss Polly, a little stiffly; ‘but—I do
not care to be sending jelly to John Pendleton, Pollyanna.’
‘I know, he is cross—outside,’ admitted Pollyanna, sadly,
‘so I suppose you don’t like him. But I wouldn’t say ‘twas
you sent it. I’d say ‘twas me. I like him. I’d be glad to send
him jelly.’
Miss Polly began to shake her head again. Then, sudden-
ly, she stopped, and asked in a curiously quiet voice:
‘Does he know who you—are, Pollyanna?’
The little girl sighed.
‘I reckon not. I told him my name, once, but he never
calls me it—never.’
‘Does he know where you—live?’
‘Oh, no. I never told him that.’
‘Then he doesn’t know you’re my—niece?’
‘I don’t think so.’
For a moment there was silence. Miss Polly was look-
ing at Pollyanna with eyes that did not seem to see her at
all. The little girl, shifting impatiently from one small foot
114 Pollyanna
to the other, sighed audibly. Then Miss Polly roused herself
with a start.
‘Very well, Pollyanna,’ she said at last , still in that queer
voice, so unlike her own; ‘you may you may take the jelly to
Mr. Pendleton as your own gift. But understand: I do not
send it. Be very sure that he does not think I do!’
‘Yes’m—no’m—thank you, Aunt Polly,’ exulted Pollyan-
na, as she flew through the door.

CHAPTER XV. DR. CHILTON
T he great gray pile of masonry looked very different to

Pollyanna when she made her second visit to the house
of Mr. John Pendleton. Windows were open, an elderly
woman was hanging out clothes in the back yard, and the
doctor’s gig stood under the porte-cochere.
As before Pollyanna went to the side door. This time she
rang the bell—her fingers were not stiff to-day from a tight
clutch on a bunch of keys.
A familiar-looking small dog bounded up the steps to
greet her, but there was a slight delay before the woman who
had been hanging out the clothes opened the door.
‘If you please, I’ve brought some calf’s-foot jelly for Mr.
Pendleton,’ smiled Pollyanna.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman, reaching for the bowl in
the little girl’s hand. ‘Who shall I say sent it? And it’s calf’s-
foot jelly?’
The doctor, coming into the hall at that moment, heard
the woman’s words and saw the disappointed look on Polly-
anna’s face. He stepped quickly forward.
‘Ah! Some calf’s-foot jelly?’ he asked genially. ‘That will
be fine! Maybe you’d like to see our patient, eh?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ beamed Pollyanna; and the woman, in obe-
dience to a nod from the doctor, led the way down the hall
at once, though plainly with vast surprise on her face.
116 Pollyanna
Behind the doctor, a young man (a trained nurse from
the nearest city) gave a disturbed exclamation.
‘But, Doctor, didn’t Mr. Pendleton give orders not to ad-
mit—any one?’
‘Oh, yes,’ nodded the doctor, imperturbably. ‘But I’m
giving orders now. I’ll take the risk.’ Then he added whimsi-
cally: ‘You don’t know, of course; but that little girl is better
than a six-quart bottle of tonic any day. If anything or any-
body can take the grouch out of Pendleton this afternoon,
she can. That’s why I sent her in.’
‘Who is she?’
For one brief moment the doctor hesitated.
‘She’s the niece of one of our best known residents. Her
name is Pollyanna Whittier. I—I don’t happen to enjoy a
very extensive personal acquaintance with the little lady as
yet; but lots of my patients do—I’m thankful to say!
The nurse smiled.
‘Indeed! And what are the special ingredients of this
wonder-working—tonic of hers?’
The doctor shook his head.
‘I don’t know. As near as I can find out it is an over-
whelming, unquenchable gladness for everything that has
happened or is going to happen. At any rate, her quaint
speeches are constantly being repeated to me, and, as near
as I can make out, ‘just being glad’ is the tenor of most of
them. All is,’ he added, with another whimsical smile, as he
stepped out on to the porch, ‘I wish I could prescribe her—
and buy her—as I would a box of pills;—though if there gets
to be many of her in the world, you and I might as well go to

ribbon-selling and ditch-digging for all the money we’d get
out of nursing and doctoring,’ he laughed, picking up the
reins and stepping into the gig.
Pollyanna, meanwhile, in accordance with the doctor’s
orders, was being escorted to John Pendleton’s rooms.
Her way led through the great library at the end of the
hall, and, rapid as was her progress through it, Pollyanna
saw at once that great changes had taken place. The book-
lined walls and the crimson curtains were the same; but
there was no litter on the floor, no untidiness on the desk,
and not so much as a grain of dust in sight. The telephone
card hung in its proper place, and the brass andirons had
been polished. One of the mysterious doors was open, and
it was toward this that the maid led the way. A moment later
Pollyanna found herself in a sumptuously furnished bed-
room while the maid was saying in a frightened voice:
‘If you please, sir, here—here’s a little girl with some jelly.
The doctor said I was to—to bring her in.’
The next moment Pollyanna found herself alone with a
very cross-looking man lying flat on his back in bed.
‘See here, didn’t I say—‘ began an angry voice. ‘Oh, it’s
you!’ it broke off not very graciously, as Pollyanna advanced
toward the bed.
‘Yes, sir,’ smiled Pollyanna. ‘Oh, I’m so glad they let me
in! You see, at first the lady ‘most took my jelly, and I was so
afraid I wasn’t going to see you at all. Then the doctor came,
and he said I might. Wasn’t he lovely to let me see you?’
In spite of himself the man’s lips twitched into a smile;
but all he said was ‘Humph!’
118 Pollyanna
‘And I’ve brought you some jelly,’ resumed Pollyanna; ‘—
calf’s-foot. I hope you like it?’ There was a rising inflection
in her voice.
‘Never ate it.’ The fleeting smile had gone, and the scowl
had come back to the man’s face.
For a brief instant Pollyanna’s countenance showed
disappointment; but it cleared as she set the bowl of jelly
down.
‘Didn’t you? Well, if you didn’t, then you can’t know you
DON’T like it, anyhow, can you? So I reckon I’m glad you
haven’t, after all. Now, if you knew—‘
‘Yes, yes; well, there’s one thing I know all right, and that
is that I’m flat on my back right here this minute, and that
I’m liable to stay here—till doomsday, I guess.’
‘Oh, no! It couldn’t be till doomsday, you know, when
the angel Gabriel blows his trumpet, unless it should come
quicker than we think it will—oh, of course, I know the
Bible says it may come quicker than we think, but I don’t
think it will—that is, of course I believe the Bible; but I
mean I don’t think it will come as much quicker as it would
if it should come now, and—‘
John Pendleton laughed suddenly—and aloud. The
nurse, coming in at that moment, heard the laugh, and beat
a hurried—but a very silent—retreat. He had the air of a
frightened cook who, seeing the danger of a breath of cold
air striking a half-done cake, hastily shuts the oven door.
‘Aren’t you getting a little mixed?’ asked John Pendleton
of Pollyanna.

The little girl laughed.
‘Maybe. But what I mean is, that legs don’t last—broken
ones, you know—like lifelong invalids, same as Mrs. Snow
has got. So yours won’t last till doomsday at all. I should
think you could be glad of that.’
‘Oh, I am,’ retorted the man grimly.
‘And you didn’t break but one. You can be glad ‘twasn’t
two.’ Pollyanna was warming to her task.
‘Of course! So fortunate,’ sniffed the man, with uplifted
eyebrows; ‘looking at it from that standpoint, I suppose I
might be glad I wasn’t a centipede and didn’t break fifty!’
Pollyanna chuckled.
‘Oh, that’s the best yet,’ she crowed. ‘I know what a centi-
pede is; they’ve got lots of legs. And you can be glad—‘
‘Oh, of course,’ interrupted the man, sharply, all the old
bitterness coming back to his voice; ‘I can be glad, too, for
all the rest, I suppose—the nurse, and the doctor, and that
confounded woman in the kitchen!’
‘Why, yes, sir—only think how bad ‘twould be if you
DIDN’T have them!’
‘Well, I—eh?’ he demanded sharply.
‘Why, I say, only think how bad it would be if you didn’t
have ‘em—and you lying here like this!’
‘As if that wasn’t the very thing that was at the bottom of
the whole matter,’ retorted the man, testily, ‘because I am
lying here like this! And yet you expect me to say I’m glad
because of a fool woman who disarranges the whole house
and calls it ‘regulating,’ and a man who aids and abets her
in it, and calls it ‘nursing,’ to say nothing of the doctor who
120 Pollyanna
eggs ‘em both on—and the whole bunch of them, mean-
while, expecting me to pay them for it, and pay them well,
too!’
Pollyanna frowned sympathetically.
‘Yes, I know. THAT part is too bad—about the money—
when you’ve been saving it, too, all this time.’
‘When—eh?’
‘Saving it—buying beans and fish balls, you know. Say,
DO you like beans?—or do you like turkey better, only on
account of the sixty cents?’
‘Look a-here, child, what are you talking about?’
Pollyanna smiled radiantly.
‘About your money, you know—denying yourself, and
saving it for the heathen. You see, I found out about it. Why,
Mr. Pendleton, that’s one of the ways I knew you weren’t
cross inside. Nancy told me.’
The man’s jaw dropped.
‘Nancy told you I was saving money for the—Well, may I
inquire who Nancy is?’
‘Our Nancy. She works for Aunt Polly.’
‘Aunt Polly! Well, who is Aunt Polly?’
‘She’s Miss Polly Harrington. I live with her.’
The man made a sudden movement.
‘Miss—Polly—Harrington!’ he breathed. ‘You live with—
HER!’
‘Yes; I’m her niece. She’s taken me to bring up—on ac-
count of my mother, you know,’ faltered Pollyanna, in a low
voice. ‘She was her sister. And after father—went to be with
her and the rest of us in Heaven, there wasn’t any one left for

me down here but the Ladies’ Aid; so she took me.’
The man did not answer. His face, as he lay back on the
pillow now, was very white—so white that Pollyanna was
frightened. She rose uncertainly to her feet.
‘I reckon maybe I’d better go now,’ she proposed. ‘I—I
hope you’ll like—the jelly.’
The man turned his head suddenly, and opened his eyes.
There was a curious longing in their dark depths which even
Pollyanna saw, and at which she marvelled.
‘And so you are—Miss Polly Harrington’s niece,’ he said
gently.
‘Yes, sir.’
Still the man’s dark eyes lingered on her face, until Pol-
lyanna, feeling vaguely restless, murmured:
‘I—I suppose you know—her.’
John Pendleton’s lips curved in an odd smile.
‘Oh, yes; I know her.’ He hesitated, then went on, still
with that curious smile. ‘But—you don’t mean—you can’t
mean that it was Miss Polly Harrington who sent that jelly—
to me?’ he said slowly,
Pollyanna looked distressed.
‘N-no, sir: she didn’t. She said I must be very sure not to
let you think she did send it. But I—‘
‘I thought as much,’ vouchsafed the man, shortly, turning
away his head. And Pollyanna, still more distressed, tiptoed
from the room.
Under the porte-cochere she found the doctor waiting in
his gig. The nurse stood on the steps.
‘Well, Miss Pollyanna, may I have the pleasure of seeing
122 Pollyanna
you home?’ asked the doctor smilingly. ‘I started to drive
on a few minutes ago; then it occurred to me that I’d wait
for you.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’m glad you did. I just love to ride,’
beamed Pollyanna, as he reached out his hand to help her
in.
‘Do you?’ smiled the doctor, nodding his head in farewell
to the young man on the steps. ‘Well, as near as I can judge,
there are a good many things you ‘love’ to do—eh?’ he add-
ed, as they drove briskly away.
Pollyanna laughed.
‘Why, I don’t know. I reckon perhaps there are,’ she ad-
mitted. ‘I like to do ‘most everything that’s LIVING. Of
course I don’t like the other things very well—sewing, and
reading out loud, and all that. But THEY aren’t LIVING.’
‘No? What are they, then?
‘Aunt Polly says they’re ‘learning to live,’ sighed Polly-
anna, with a rueful smile.
The doctor smiled now—a little queerly.
‘Does she? Well, I should think she might say—just that.’
‘Yes,’ responded Pollyanna. ‘But I don’t see it that way at
all. I don’t think you have to LEARN how to live. I didn’t,
anyhow.’
The doctor drew a long sigh.
‘After all, I’m afraid some of us—do have to, little girl,’
he said. Then, for a time he was silent. Pollyanna, stealing a
glance at his face, felt vaguely sorry for him. He looked so
sad. She wished, uneasily, that she could ‘do something.’ It
was this, perhaps, that caused her to say in a timid voice:

‘Dr. Chilton, I should think being a doctor would, be the
very gladdest kind of a business there was.’
The doctor turned in surprise.
‘ ‘Gladdest’!—when I see so much suffering always, ev-
erywhere I go?’ he cried.
She nodded.
‘I know; but you’re HELPING it—don’t you see?—and of
course you’re glad to help it! And so that makes you the
gladdest of any of us, all the time.’
The doctor’s eyes filled with sudden hot tears. The doc-
tor’s life was a singularly lonely one. He had no wife and no
home save his two-room office in a boarding house. His pro-
fession was very dear to him. Looking now into Pollyanna’s
shining eyes, he felt as if a loving hand had been suddenly
laid on his head in blessing. He knew, too, that never again
would a long day’s work or a long night’s weariness be quite
without that new-found exaltation that had come to him
through Pollyanna’s eyes.
‘God bless you, little girl,’ he said unsteadily. Then, with
the bright smile his patients knew and loved so well, he
added: ‘And I’m thinking, after all, that it was the doctor,
quite as much as his patients, that needed a draft of that
tonic!’ All of which puzzled Pollyanna very much—until a
chipmunk, running across the road, drove the whole mat-
ter from her mind.
The doctor left Pollyanna at her own door, smiled at Nan-
cy, who was sweeping off the front porch, then drove rapidly
away.
‘I’ve had a perfectly beautiful ride with the doctor,’ an-
124 Pollyanna
nounced Pollyanna, bounding up the steps. ‘He’s lovely,
Nancy!’
‘Is he?’
‘Yes. And I told him I should think his business would be
the very gladdest one there was.’
‘What!—goin’ ter see sick folks—an’ folks what ain’t sick
but thinks they is, which is worse? Nancy’s face showed
open skepticism.
‘Yes. That’s ‘most what he said, too; but there is a way to
be glad, even then. Guess!’
Nancy frowned in meditation. Nancy was getting so she
could play this game of ‘being glad’ quite successfully, she
thought. She rather enjoyed studying out Pollyanna’s ‘pos-
ers,’ too, as she called some of the little girl’s questions.
‘Oh, I know,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s just the opposite from
what you told Mis’ Snow.’
‘Opposite?’ repeated Pollyanna, obviously puzzled.
‘Yes. You told her she could be glad because other folks
wasn’t like her—all sick, you know.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Pollyanna.
‘Well, the doctor can be glad because he isn’t like oth-
er folks—the sick ones, I mean, what he doctors,’ finished
Nancy in triumph.
It was Pollyanna’s turn to frown.
‘Why, y-yes,’ she admitted. ‘Of course that IS one way,
but it isn’t the way I said; and—someway, I don’t seem to
quite like the sound of it. It isn’t exactly as if he said he was
glad they WERE sick, but—You do play the game so funny,

sometimes Nancy,’ she sighed, as she went into the house.
Pollyanna found her aunt in the sitting room.
‘Who was that man—the one who drove into the yard,
Pollyanna?’ questioned the lady a little sharply.
‘Why, Aunt Polly, that was Dr. Chilton! Don’t you know
him?’
‘Dr. Chilton! What was he doing—here?
‘He drove me home. Oh, and I gave the jelly to Mr. Pend-
leton, and—‘
Miss Polly lifted her head quickly.
‘Pollyanna, he did not think I sent it?’
‘Oh, no, Aunt Polly. I told him you didn’t.’
Miss Polly grew a sudden vivid pink.
‘You TOLD him I didn’t!’
Pollyanna opened wide her eyes at the remonstrative dis-
may in her aunt’s voice.
‘Why, Aunt Polly, you SAID to!’
Aunt Polly sighed.
‘I SAID, Pollyanna, that I did not send it, and for you to
be very sure that he did not think I DID!—which is a very
different matter from TELLING him outright that I did not
send it.’ And she turned vexedly away.
‘Dear me! Well, I don’t see where the difference is,’ sighed
Pollyanna, as she went to hang her hat on the one particu-
lar hook in the house upon which Aunt Polly had said that
it must be hung.
126 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XVI. A RED ROSE
AND A LACE SHAWL
I t was on a rainy day about a week after Pollyanna’s visit to

Mr. John Pendleton, that Miss Polly was driven by Timo-
thy to an early afternoon committee meeting of the Ladies’
Aid Society. When she returned at three o’clock, her cheeks
were a bright, pretty pink, and her hair, blown by the damp
wind, had fluffed into kinks and curls wherever the loos-
ened pins had given leave.
Pollyanna had never before seen her aunt look like this.
‘Oh—oh—oh! Why, Aunt Polly, you’ve got ‘em, too,’ she
cried rapturously, dancing round and round her aunt, as
that lady entered the sitting room.
‘Got what, you impossible child?’
Pollyanna was still revolving round and round her aunt.
‘And I never knew you had ‘em! Can folks have ‘em when
you don’t know they’ve got ‘em? DO you suppose I could?—
‘fore I get to Heaven, I mean,’ she cried, pulling out with
eager fingers the straight locks above her ears. ‘But then,
they wouldn’t be black, if they did come. You can’t hide the
black part.’
‘Pollyanna, what does all this mean?’ demanded Aunt
Polly, hurriedly removing her hat, and trying to smooth
back her disordered hair.

‘No, no—please, Aunt Polly!’ Pollyanna’s jubilant voice
turned to one of distressed appeal. ‘Don’t smooth ‘em out!
It’s those that I’m talking about—those darling little black
curls. Oh, Aunt Polly, they’re so pretty!’
‘Nonsense! What do you mean, Pollyanna, by going to
the Ladies’ Aid the other day in that absurd fashion about
that beggar boy?’
‘But it isn’t nonsense,’ urged Pollyanna, answering only
the first of her aunt’s remarks. ‘You don’t know how pretty
you look with your hair like that! Oh, Aunt Polly, please,
mayn’t I do your hair like I did Mrs. Snow’s, and put in a
flower? I’d so love to see you that way! Why, you’d be ever
so much prettier than she was!’
‘Pollyanna!’ (Miss Polly spoke very sharply—all the more
sharply because Pollyanna’s words had given her an odd
throb of joy: when before had anybody cared how she, or
her hair looked? When before had anybody ‘loved’ to see
her ‘pretty’?) ‘Pollyanna, you did not answer my question.
Why did you go to the Ladies’ Aid in that absurd fashion?’
‘Yes’m, I know; but, please, I didn’t know it was absurd
until I went and found out they’d rather see their report
grow than Jimmy. So then I wrote to MY Ladies’ Aid-
ers—‘cause Jimmy is far away from them, you know; and I
thought maybe he could be their little India boy same as—
Aunt Polly, WAS I your little India girl? And, Aunt Polly,
you WILL let me do your hair, won’t you?’
Aunt Polly put her hand to her throat—the old, helpless
feeling was upon her, she knew.
‘But, Pollyanna, when the ladies Old me this afternoon
128 Pollyanna
how you came to them, I was so ashamed! I—‘
Pollyanna began to dance up and down lightly on her
toes.
‘You didn’t!—You didn’t say I COULDN’T do your hair,’
she crowed triumphantly; ‘and so I’m sure it means just the
other way ‘round, sort of—like it did the other day about
Mr. Pendleton’s jelly that you didn’t send, but didn’t want
me to say you didn’t send, you know. Now wait just where
you are. I’ll get a comb.’
‘But Pollyanna, Pollyanna,’ remonstrated Aunt Polly, fol-
lowing the little girl from the room and panting up-stairs
after her.
‘Oh, did you come up here?’ Pollyanna greeted her at the
door of Miss Polly’s own room. ‘That’ll be nicer yet! I’ve got
the comb. Now sit down, please, right here. Oh, I’m so glad
you let me do it!’
‘But, Pollyanna, I—I ‘
Miss Polly did not finish her sentence. To her helpless
amazement she found herself in the low chair before the
dressing table, with her hair already tumbling about her
ears under ten eager, but very gentle fingers.
‘Oh, my! what pretty hair you’ve got,’ prattled Pollyanna;
‘and there’s so much more of it than Mrs. Snow has, too! But,
of course, you need more, anyhow, because you’re well and
can go to places where folks can see it. My! I reckon folks’ll
be glad when they do see it—and surprised, too, ‘cause
you’ve hid it so long. Why, Aunt Polly, I’ll make you so pret-
ty everybody’ll just love to look at you!’
‘Pollyanna!’ gasped a stifled but shocked voice from a veil

of hair. I—I’m sure I don’t know why I’m letting you do this
silly thing.’
‘Why, Aunt Polly, I should think you’d be glad to have
folks like to look at you! Don’t you like to look at pretty
things? I’m ever so much happier when I look at pretty folks,
‘cause when I look at the other kind I’m so sorry for them.’
‘But—but—‘
‘And I just love to do folks’ hair,’ purred Pollyanna, con-
tentedly. ‘I did quite a lot of the Ladies’ Aiders’—but there
wasn’t any of them so nice as yours. Mrs. White’s was pret-
ty nice, though, and she looked just lovely one day when I
dressed her up in—Oh, Aunt Polly, I’ve just happened to
think of something! But it’s a secret, and I sha’n’t tell. Now
your hair is almost done, and pretty quick I’m going to
leave you just a minute; and you must promise—promise—
PROMISE not to stir nor peek, even, till I come back. Now
remember! she finished, as she ran from the room.
Aloud Miss Polly said nothing. To herself she said that
of course she should at once undo the absurd work of her
niece’s fingers, and put her hair up properly again. As for
‘peeking’ just as if she cared how—
At that moment—unaccountably—Miss Polly caught a
glimpse of herself in the mirror of the dressing table. And
what she saw sent such a flush of rosy color to her cheeks
that—she only flushed the more at the sight.
She saw a face—not young, it is true—but just now alight
with excitement and surprise. The cheeks were a pretty
pink. The eyes sparkled. The hair, dark, and still damp from
the outdoor air, lay in loose waves about the forehead and
130 Pollyanna
curved back over the ears in wonderfully becoming lines,
with softening little curls here and there.
So amazed and so absorbed was Miss Polly with what
she saw in the glass that she quite forgot her determina-
tion to do over her hair, until she heard Pollyanna enter the
room again. Before she could move, then, she felt a folded
something slipped across her eyes and tied in the back.
‘Pollyanna, Pollyanna! What are you doing?’ she cried.
Pollyanna chuckled.
‘That’s just what I don’t want you to know, Aunt Polly,
and I was afraid you WOULD peek, so I tied on the hand-
kerchief. Now sit still. It won’t take but just a minute, then
I’ll let you see.’
‘But, Pollyanna,’ began Miss Polly, struggling blindly to
her feet, ‘you must take this off! You—child, child! what
ARE you doing?’ she gasped, as she felt a soft something
slipped about her shoulders.
Pollyanna only chuckled the more gleefully. With trem-
bling fingers she was draping about her aunt’s shoulders the
fleecy folds of a beautiful lace shawl, yellowed from long
years of packing away, and fragrant with lavender. Polly-
anna had found the shawl the week before when Nancy had
been regulating the attic; and it had occurred to her to-day
that there was no reason why her aunt, as well as Mrs. White
of her Western home, should not be ‘dressed up.’
Her task completed, Pollyanna surveyed her work with
eyes that approved, but that saw yet one touch wanting.
Promptly, therefore, she pulled her aunt toward the sun
parlor where she could see a belated red rose blooming on

the trellis within reach of her hand.
‘Pollyanna, what are you doing? Where are you taking
me to?’ recoiled Aunt Polly, vainly trying to hold herself
back. ‘Pollyanna, I shall not—‘
‘It’s just to the sun parlor—only a minute! I’ll have you
ready now quicker’n no time,’ panted Pollyanna, reaching
for the rose and thrusting it into the soft hair above Miss
Polly’s left ear. ‘There!’ she exulted, untying the knot of the
handkerchief and flinging the bit of linen far from her. ‘Oh,
Aunt Polly, now I reckon you’ll be glad I dressed you up!’
For one dazed moment Miss Polly looked at her be-
decked self, and at her surroundings; then she gave a low
cry and fled to her room. Pollyanna, following the direc-
tion of her aunt’s last dismayed gaze, saw, through the open
windows of the sun parlor, the horse and gig turning into
the driveway. She recognized at once the man who held the
reins. Delightedly she leaned forward.
‘Dr. Chilton, Dr. Chilton! Did you want to see me? I’m
up here.’
‘Yes,’ smiled the doctor, a little gravely. ‘Will you come
down, please?’
In the bedroom Pollyanna found a flushed-faced, angry-
eyed woman plucking at the pins that held a lace shawl in
place.
‘Pollyanna, how could you?’ moaned the woman. ‘To
think of your rigging me up like this, and then letting me—
BE SEEN!’
Pollyanna stopped in dismay.
‘But you looked lovely—perfectly lovely, Aunt Polly;
132 Pollyanna
and—‘
‘ ‘Lovely’!’ scorned the woman, flinging the shawl to one
side and attacking her hair with shaking fingers.
‘Oh, Aunt Polly, please, please let the hair stay!’
‘Stay? Like this? As if I would!’ And Miss Polly pulled the
locks so tightly back that the last curl lay stretched dead at
the ends of her fingers.
‘O dear! And you did look so pretty,’ almost sobbed Pol-
lyanna, as she stumbled through the door.
Down-stairs Pollyanna found the doctor waiting in his
gig.
‘I’ve prescribed you for a patient, and he’s sent me to get
the prescription filled,’ announced the doctor. ‘Will you
go?’
‘You mean—an errand—to the drug store?’ asked Polly-
anna, a little uncertainly. ‘I used to go some—for the Ladies’
Aiders.’
The doctor shook his head with a smile.
‘Not exactly. It’s Mr. John Pendleton. He would like to see
you to-day, if you’ll be so good as to come. It’s stopped rain-
ing, so I drove down after you. Will you come? I’ll call for
you and bring you back before six o’clock.’
‘I’d love to!’ exclaimed Pollyanna. ‘Let me ask Aunt Pol-
ly.’
In a few moments she returned, hat in hand, but with
rather a sober face.
‘Didn’t—your aunt want you to go?’ asked the doctor, a
little diffidently, as they drove away.
‘Y-yes,’ sighed Pollyanna. ‘She—she wanted me to go

TOO much, I’m afraid.’
‘Wanted you to go TOO MUCH!’
Pollyanna sighed again.
‘Yes. I reckon she meant she didn’t want me there. You
see, she said: ‘Yes, yes, run along, run along—do! I wish
you’d gone before.’ ‘
The doctor smiled—but with his lips only. His eyes were
very grave. For some time he said nothing; then, a little hes-
itatingly, he asked:
‘Wasn’t it—your aunt I saw with you a few minutes ago—
in the window of the sun parlor?
Pollyanna drew a long breath.
‘Yes; that’s what’s the whole trouble, I suppose. You see
I’d dressed her up in a perfectly lovely lace shawl I found
up-stairs, and I’d fixed her hair and put on a rose, and she
looked so pretty. Didn’t YOU think she looked just lovely?’
For a moment the doctor did not answer. When he did
speak his voice was so low Pollyanna could but just hear
the words.
‘Yes, Pollyanna, I—I thought she did look—just lovely.’
‘Did you? I’m so glad! I’ll tell her,’ nodded the little girl,
contentedly.
To her surprise the doctor gave a sudden exclamation.
‘Never! Pollyanna, I—I’m afraid I shall have to ask you
not to tell her—that.’
‘Why, Dr. Chilton! Why not? I should think you’d be
glad—‘
‘But she might not be,’ cut in the doctor.
Pollyanna considered this for a moment.
134 Pollyanna
‘That’s so—maybe she wouldn’t,’ she sighed. ‘I remember
now; ‘twas ‘cause she saw you that she ran. And she—she
spoke afterwards about her being seen in that rig.’
‘I thought as much,’ declared the doctor, under his
breath.
‘Still, I don’t see why,’ maintained Pollyanna, ‘—when
she looked so pretty!’
The doctor said nothing. He did not speak again, indeed,
until they were almost to the great stone house in which
John Pendleton lay with a broken leg.

CHAPTER XVII. ‘JUST
LIKE A BOOK”
J ohn Pendleton greeted Pollyanna to-day with a smile.

‘Well, Miss Pollyanna, I’m thinking you must be a very
forgiving little person, else you wouldn’t have come to see
me again to-day.’
‘Why, Mr. Pendleton, I was real glad to come, and I’m
sure I don’t see why I shouldn’t be, either.’
‘Oh, well, you know, I was pretty cross with you, I’m
afraid, both the other day when you so kindly brought me
the jelly, and that time when you found me with the broken
leg at first. By the way, too, I don’t think I’ve ever thanked
you for that. Now I’m sure that even you would admit that
you were very forgiving to come and see me, after such un-
grateful treatment as that!’
Pollyanna stirred uneasily.
‘But I was glad to find you—that is, I don’t mean I was
glad your leg was broken, of course,’ she corrected hurried-
ly.
John Pendleton smiled.
‘I understand. Your tongue does get away with you once
in a while, doesn’t it, Miss Pollyanna? I do thank you, how-
ever; and I consider you a very brave little girl to do what
you did that day. I thank you for the jelly, too,’ he added in
136 Pollyanna
a lighter voice.
‘Did you like it?’ asked Pollyanna with interest.
‘Very much. I suppose—there isn’t any more to-day that—
that Aunt Polly DIDN’T send, is there?’ he asked with an
odd smile.
His visitor looked distressed.
‘N-no, sir.’ She hesitated, then went on with heightened
color. ‘Please, Mr. Pendleton, I didn’t mean to be rude the
other day when I said Aunt Polly did NOT send the jelly.’
There was no answer. John Pendleton was not smiling
now. He was looking straight ahead of him with eyes that
seemed to be gazing through and beyond the object before
them. After a time he drew a long sigh and turned to Pol-
lyanna. When he spoke his voice carried the old nervous
fretfulness.
‘Well, well, this will never do at all! I didn’t send for you
to see me moping this time. Listen! Out in the library—the
big room where the telephone is, you know—you will find
a carved box on the lower shelf of the big case with glass
doors in the corner not far from the fireplace. That is, it’ll
be there if that confounded woman hasn’t ‘regulated’ it to
somewhere else! You may bring it to me. It is heavy, but not
too heavy for you to carry, I think.’
‘Oh, I’m awfully strong,’ declared Pollyanna, cheerfully,
as she sprang to her feet. In a minute she had returned with
the box.
It was a wonderful half-hour that Pollyanna spent then.
The box was full of treasures—curios that John Pendle-
ton had picked up in years of travel—and concerning each

there was some entertaining story, whether it were a set of
exquisitely carved chessmen from China, or a little jade idol
from India.
It was after she had heard the story about the idol that
Pollyanna murmured wistfully:
‘Well, I suppose it WOULD be better to take a little boy
in India to bring up—one that didn’t know any more than
to think that God was in that doll-thing—than it would be
to take Jimmy Bean, a little boy who knows God is up in the
sky. Still, I can’t help wishing they had wanted Jimmy Bean,
too, besides the India boys.’
John Pendleton did not seem to hear. Again his, eyes
were staring straight before him, looking at nothing. But
soon he had roused himself, and had picked up another cu-
rio to talk about.
The visit, certainly, was a delightful one, but before it was
over, Pollyanna was realizing that they were talking about
something besides the wonderful things in the beautiful
carved box. They were talking of herself, of Nancy, of Aunt
Polly, and of her daily life. They were talking, too, even of
the life and home long ago in the far Western town.
Not until it was nearly time for her to go, did the man
say, in a voice Pollyanna had never before heard from stern
John Pendleton:
‘Little girl, I want you to come to see me often. Will you?
I’m lonesome, and I need you. There’s another reason—and
I’m going to tell you that, too. I thought, at first, after I found
out who you were, the other day, that I didn’t want you to
come any more. You reminded me of—of something I have
138 Pollyanna
tried for long years to forget. So I said to myself that I never
wanted to see you again; and every day, when the doctor
asked if I wouldn’t let him bring you to me, I said no.
‘But after a time I found I was wanting to see you so much
that—that the fact that I WASN’T seeing you was making
me remember all the more vividly the thing I was so want-
ing to forget. So now I want you to come. Will you—little
girl?’
‘Why, yes, Mr. Pendleton,’ breathed Pollyanna, her eyes
luminous with sympathy for the sad-faced man lying back
on the pillow before her. ‘I’d love to come!’
‘Thank you,’ said John Pendleton, gently.
After supper that evening, Pollyanna, sitting on the back
porch, told Nancy all about Mr. John Pendleton’s won-
derful carved box, and the still more wonderful things it
contained.
‘And ter think,’ sighed Nancy, ‘that he SHOWED ye all
them things, and told ye about ‘em like that—him that’s so
cross he never talks ter no one—no one!’
‘Oh, but he isn’t cross, Nancy, only outside,’ demurred
Pollyanna, with quick loyalty. ‘I don’t see why everybody
thinks he’s so bad, either. They wouldn’t, if they knew him.
But even Aunt Polly doesn’t like him very well. She wouldn’t
send the jelly to him, you know, and she was so afraid he’d
think she did send it!’
‘Probably she didn’t call him no duty,’ shrugged Nancy.
‘But what beats me is how he happened ter take ter you so,
Miss Pollyanna—meanin’ no offence ter you, of course—
but he ain’t the sort o’ man what gen’rally takes ter kids; he

ain’t, he ain’t.’
Pollyanna smiled happily.
‘But he did, Nancy,’ she nodded, ‘only I reckon even he
didn’t want to—ALL the time. Why, only to-day he owned
up that one time he just felt he never wanted to see me again,
because I reminded him of something he wanted to forget.
But afterwards—‘
‘What’s that?’ interrupted Nancy, excitedly. ‘He said you
reminded him of something he wanted to forget?’
‘Yes. But afterwards—‘
‘What was it?’ Nancy was eagerly insistent.
‘He didn’t tell me. He just said it was something.’
‘THE MYSTERY!’ breathed Nancy, in an awestruck
voice. ‘That’s why he took to you in the first place. Oh, Miss
Pollyanna! Why, that’s just like a book—I’ve read lots of ‘em;
‘Lady Maud’s Secret,’ and ‘The Lost Heir,’ and ‘Hidden for
Years’—all of ‘em had mysteries and things just like this. My
stars and stockings! Just think of havin’ a book lived right
under yer nose like this an’ me not knowin’ it all this time!
Now tell me everythin’—everythin’ he said, Miss Pollyanna,
there’s a dear! No wonder he took ter you; no wonder—no
wonder!’
‘But he didn’t,’ cried Pollyanna, ‘not till I talked to HIM,
first. And he didn’t even know who I was till I took the calf’s-
foot jelly, and had to make him understand that Aunt Polly
didn’t send it, and—‘
Nancy sprang to her feet and clasped her hands together
suddenly.
‘Oh, Miss Pollyanna, I know, I know—I KNOW I know!’
140 Pollyanna
she exulted rapturously. The next minute she was down at
Pollyanna’s side again. ‘Tell me—now think, and answer
straight and true,’ she urged excitedly. ‘It was after he found
out you was Miss Polly’s niece that he said he didn’t ever
want ter see ye again, wa’n’t it?’
‘Oh, yes. I told him that the last time I saw him, and he
told me this to-day.’
‘I thought as much,’ triumphed Nancy. ‘And Miss Polly
wouldn’t send the jelly herself, would she?’
‘No.’
‘And you told him she didn’t send it?’
‘Why, yes; I—‘
‘And he began ter act queer and cry out sudden after he
found out you was her niece. He did that, didn’t he?’
‘Why, y-yes; he did act a little queer—over that jelly,’ ad-
mitted Pollyanna, with a thoughtful frown.
Nancy drew a long sigh.
‘Then I’ve got it, sure! Now listen. MR. JOHN PENDLE-
TON WAS MISS POLLY HARRINGTON’S LOVER!’ she
announced impressively, but with a furtive glance over her
shoulder.
‘Why, Nancy, he couldn’t be! She doesn’t like him,’ ob-
jected Pollyanna.
Nancy gave her a scornful glance.
‘Of course she don’t! THAT’S the quarrel!
Pollyanna still looked incredulous, and with another
long breath Nancy happily settled herself to tell the story.
‘It’s like this. Just before you come, Mr. Tom told me Miss
Polly had had a lover once. I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t—her

and a lover! But Mr. Tom said she had, and that he was livin’
now right in this town. And NOW I know, of course. It’s
John Pendleton. Hain’t he got a mystery in his life? Don’t he
shut himself up in that grand house alone, and never speak
ter no one? Didn’t he act queer when he found out you
was Miss Polly’s niece? And now hain’t he owned up that
you remind him of somethin’ he wants ter forget? Just as
if ANYBODY couldn’t see ‘twas Miss Polly!—an’ her sayin’
she wouldn’t send him no jelly, too. Why, Miss Pollyanna,
it’s as plain as the nose on yer face; it is, it is!’
‘Oh-h!’ breathed Pollyanna, in wide-eyed amazement.
‘But, Nancy, I should think if they loved each other they’d
make up some time. Both of ‘em all alone, so, all these years.
I should think they’d be glad to make up!’
Nancy sniffed disdainfully.
‘I guess maybe you don’t know much about lovers, Miss
Pollyanna. You ain’t big enough yet, anyhow. But if there IS
a set o’ folks in the world that wouldn’t have no use for that
‘ere ‘glad game’ o’ your’n, it’d be a pair o’ quarrellin’ lov-
ers; and that’s what they be. Ain’t he cross as sticks, most
gen’rally?—and ain’t she—‘
Nancy stopped abruptly, remembering just in time to
whom, and about whom, she was speaking. Suddenly, how-
ever, she chuckled.
‘I ain’t sayin’, though, Miss Pollyanna, but what it would
be a pretty slick piece of business if you could GET ‘em ter
playin’ it—so they WOULD be glad ter make up. But, my
land! wouldn’t folks stare some—Miss Polly and him! I
guess, though, there ain’t much chance, much chance!’
142 Pollyanna
Pollyanna said nothing; but when she went into the
house a little later, her face was very thoughtful.

CHAPTER XVIII. PRISMS
A s 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 Pol-
lyanna thought.
He talked to her, it was true, and be 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 un-
welcome members of his household. He did, indeed, seem
to like to hear Pollyanna talk, however, and Pollyanna talk-
ed, 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.
144 Pollyanna
Pollyanna never doubted now that John Pendleton was
her Aunt Polly’s one-time lover; and with all the strength
of her loving, loyal heart, she wished she could in some way
bring happiness into their to her mind—miserably lonely
lives.
Just how she was to do this, however, she could not see.
She talked to Mr. Pendleton about her aunt; and he listened,
sometimes politely, sometimes irritably, frequently with a
quizzical smile on his usually stern lips. She talked to her
aunt about Mr. Pendleton—or rather, she tried to talk to her
about him. As a general thing, however, Miss Polly would
not listen—long. She always found something else to talk
about. She frequently did that, however, when Pollyanna
was talking of others—of Dr. Chilton, for instance. Pollyan-
na laid this, though, to the fact that it had been Dr. Chilton
who had seen her in the sun parlor with the rose in her hair
and the lace shawl draped about her shoulders. Aunt Polly,
indeed, seemed particularly bitter against Dr. Chilton, as
Pollyanna found out one day when a hard cold shut her up
in the house.
‘If you are not better by night I shall send for the doctor,’
Aunt Polly said.
‘Shall you? Then I’m going to be worse,’ gurgled Pollyan-
na. ‘I’d love to have Dr. Chilton come to see me!’
She wondered, then, at the look that came to her aunt’s
face.
‘It will not be Dr. Chilton, Pollyanna,’ Miss Polly said
sternly. ‘Dr. Chilton is not our family physician. I shall send
for Dr. Warren—if you are worse.’

Pollyanna did not grow worse, however, and Dr. Warren
was not summoned.
‘And I’m so glad, too,’ Pollyanna said to her aunt that eve-
ning. ‘Of course I like Dr. Warren, and all that; but I like Dr.
Chilton better, and I’m afraid he’d feel hurt if I didn’t have
him. You see, he wasn’t really to blame, after all, that he
happened to see you when I’d dressed you up so pretty that
day, Aunt Polly,’ she finished wistfully.
‘That will do, Pollyanna. I really do not wish to discuss
Dr. Chilton—or his feelings,’ reproved Miss Polly, decisive-
ly.
Pollyanna looked at her for a moment with mournfully
interested eyes; then she sighed:
‘I just love to see you when your cheeks are pink like that,
Aunt Polly; but I would so like to fix your hair. If—Why,
Aunt Polly!’ But her aunt was already out of sight down the
hall.
It was toward the end of August that Pollyanna, making
an early morning call on John Pendleton, found the flaming
band of blue and gold and green edged with red and violet
lying across his pillow. She stopped short in awed delight.
‘Why, Mr. Pendleton, it’s a baby rainbow—a real rain-
bow come in to pay you a visit!’ she exclaimed, clapping her
hands together softly. ‘Oh—oh—oh, how pretty it is! But
how DID it get in?’ she cried.
The man laughed a little grimly: John Pendleton was par-
ticularly out of sorts with the world this morning.
‘Well, I suppose it ‘got in’ through the bevelled edge of
that glass thermometer in the window,’ he said wearily. ‘The
146 Pollyanna
sun shouldn’t strike it at all but it does in the morning.’
‘Oh, but it’s so pretty, Mr. Pendleton! And does just the
sun do that? My! if it was mine I’d have it hang in the sun
all day long!’
‘Lots of good you’d get out of the thermometer, then,’
laughed the man. ‘How do you suppose you could tell how
hot it was, or how cold it was, if the thermometer hung in
the sun all day?’
‘I shouldn’t care,’ breathed Pollyanna, her fascinated eyes
on the brilliant band of colors across the pillow. ‘Just as if
anybody’d care when they were living all the time in a rain-
bow!
The man laughed. He was watching Pollyanna’s rapt face
a little curiously. Suddenly a new thought came to him. He
touched the bell at his side.
‘Nora,’ he said, when the elderly maid appeared at the
door, ‘bring me one of the big brass candle-sticks from the
mantel in the front drawing-room.’
‘Yes, sir,’ murmured the woman, looking slightly dazed.
In a minute she had returned. A musical tinkling entered
the room with her as she advanced wonderingly toward the
bed. It came from the prism pendants encircling the old-
fashioned candelabrum in her hand.
‘Thank you. You may set it here on the stand,’ directed
the man. ‘Now get a string and fasten it to the sash-curtain
fixtures of that window there. Take down the sash-curtain,
and let the string reach straight across the window from
side to side. That will be all. Thank you,’ he said, when she
had carried out his directions.

As she left the room he turned smiling eyes toward the
wondering Pollyanna.
‘Bring me the candlestick now, please, Pollyanna.’
With both hands she brought it; and in a moment he was
slipping off the pendants, one by one, until they lay, a round
dozen of them, side by side, on the bed.
‘Now, my dear, suppose you take them and hook them to
that little string Nora fixed across the window. If you really
WANT to live in a rainbow—I don’t see but we’ll have to
have a rainbow for you to live in!’
Pollyanna had not hung up three of the pendants in the
sunlit window before she saw a little of what was going to
happen. She was so excited then she could scarcely control
her shaking fingers enough to hang up the rest. But at last
her task was finished, and she stepped back with a low cry
of delight.
It had become a fairyland—that sumptuous, but dreary
bedroom. Everywhere were bits of dancing red and green,
violet and orange, gold and blue. The wall, the floor, and the
furniture, even to the bed itself, were aflame with shimmer-
ing bits of color.
‘Oh, oh, oh, how lovely!’ breathed Pollyanna; then she
laughed suddenly. ‘I just reckon the sun himself is trying to
play the game now, don’t you?’ she cried, forgetting for the
moment that Mr. Pendleton could not know what she was
talking about. ‘Oh, how I wish I had a lot of those things!
How I would like to give them to Aunt Polly and Mrs. Snow
and—lots of folks. I reckon THEN they’d be glad all right!
Why, I think even Aunt Polly’d get so glad she couldn’t
148 Pollyanna
help banging doors if she lived in a rainbow like that. Don’t
you?’
Mr. Pendleton laughed.
‘Well, from my remembrance of your aunt, Miss Polly-
anna, I must say I think it would take something more than
a few prisms in the sunlight to—to make her bang many
doors—for gladness. But come, now, really, what do you
mean?’
Pollyanna stared slightly; then she drew a long breath.
‘Oh, I forgot. You don’t know about the game. I remem-
ber now.’
‘Suppose you tell me, then.’
And this time Pollyanna told him. She told him the whole
thing from the very first—from the crutches that should
have been a doll. As she talked, she did not look at his face.
Her rapt eyes were still on the dancing flecks of color from
the prism pendants swaying in the sunlit window.
‘And that’s all,’ she sighed, when she had finished. ‘And
now you know why I said the sun was trying to play it—that
game.’
For a moment there was silence. Then a low voice from
the bed said unsteadily:
‘Perhaps; but I’m thinking that the very finest prism of
them all is yourself, Pollyanna.’
‘Oh, but I don’t show beautiful red and green and purple
when the sun shines through me, Mr. Pendleton!’
‘Don’t you?’ smiled the man. And Pollyanna, looking
into his face, wondered why there were tears in his eyes.
‘No,’ she said. Then, after a minute she added mourn-

fully: ‘I’m afraid, Mr. Pendleton, the sun doesn’t make
anything but freckles out of me. Aunt Polly says it DOES
make them!
The man laughed a little; and again Pollyanna looked at
him: the laugh had sounded almost like a sob.
150 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XIX. WHICH IS
SOMEWHAT SURPRISING
P ollyanna entered school in September. Preliminary ex-

aminations showed that she was well advanced for a girl
of her years, and she was soon a happy member of a class of
girls and boys her own age.
School, in some ways, was a surprise to Pollyanna; and
Pollyanna, certainly, in many ways, was very much of a
surprise to school. They were soon on the best of terms,
however, and to her aunt Pollyanna confessed that going
to school WAS living, after all—though she had had her
doubts before.
In spite of her delight in her new work, Pollyanna did not
forget her old friends. True, she could not give them quite
so much time now, of course; but she gave them what time
she could. Perhaps John Pendleton, of them all, however,
was the most dissatisfied.
One Saturday afternoon he spoke to her about it.
‘See here, Pollyanna, how would you like to come and
live with me? he asked, a little impatiently. ‘I don’t see any-
thing of you, nowadays.’
Pollyanna laughed—Mr. Pendleton was such a funny
man!
‘I thought you didn’t like to have folks ‘round,’ she said.

He made a wry face.
‘Oh, but that was before you taught me to play that won-
derful game of yours. Now I’m glad to be waited on, hand
and foot! Never mind, I’ll be on my own two feet yet, one
of these days; then I’ll see who steps around,’ he finished,
picking up one of the crutches at his side and shaking it
playfully at the little girl. They were sitting in the great li-
brary to-day.
‘Oh, but you aren’t really glad at all for things; you just
SAY you are,’ pouted Pollyanna, her eyes on the dog, doz-
ing before the fire. ‘You know you don’t play the game right
EVER, Mr. Pendleton—you know you don’t!’
The man’s face grew suddenly very grave.
‘That’s why I want you, little girl—to help me play it. Will
you come?’
Pollyanna turned in surprise.
‘Mr. Pendleton, you don’t really mean—that?
‘But I do. I want you. Will you come?’
Pollyanna looked distressed.
‘Why, Mr. Pendleton, I can’t—you know I can’t. Why,
I’m—Aunt Polly’s!’
A quick something crossed the man’s face that Pollyan-
na could not quite understand. His head came up almost
fiercely.
‘You’re no more hers than—Perhaps she would let you
come to me,’ he finished more gently. ‘Would you come—if
she did?’
Pollyanna frowned in deep thought.
‘But Aunt Polly has been so—good to me,’ she began
152 Pollyanna
slowly; ‘and she took me when I didn’t have anybody left
but the Ladies’ Aid, and—‘
Again that spasm of something crossed the man’s face;
but this time, when he spoke, his voice was low and very
sad.
‘Pollyanna, long years ago I loved somebody very much. I
hoped to bring her, some day, to this house. I pictured how
happy we’d be together in our home all the long years to
come.’
‘Yes,’ pitied Pollyanna, her eyes shining with sympathy.
‘But—well, I didn’t bring her here. Never mind why. I just
didn’t that’s all. And ever since then this great gray pile of
stone has been a house—never a home. It takes a woman’s
hand and heart, or a child’s presence, to make a home, Pol-
lyanna; and I have not had either. Now will you come, my
dear?’
Pollyanna sprang to her feet. Her face was fairly illu-
mined.
‘Mr. Pendleton, you—you mean that you wish you—you
had had that woman’s hand and heart all this time?’
‘Why, y-yes, Pollyanna.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad! Then it’s all right,’ sighed the little girl.
‘Now you can take us both, and everything will be lovely.’
‘Take—you—both?’ repeated the man, dazedly.
A faint doubt crossed Pollyanna’s countenance.
‘Well, of course, Aunt Polly isn’t won over, yet; but I’m
sure she will be if you tell it to her just as you did to me, and
then we’d both come, of course.’
A look of actual terror leaped to the man’s eyes.

‘Aunt Polly come—HERE!’
Pollyanna’s eyes widened a little.
‘Would you rather go THERE?’ she asked. Of course the
house isn’t quite so pretty, but it’s nearer—‘
‘Pollyanna, what ARE you talking about?’ asked the man,
very gently now.
‘Why, about where we’re going to live, of course,’ re-
joined Pollyanna, in obvious surprise. ‘I THOUGHT you
meant here, at first. You said it was here that you had want-
ed Aunt Polly’s hand and heart all these years to make a
home, and—‘
An inarticulate cry came from the man’s throat. He
raised his hand and began to speak; but the next moment
he dropped his hand nervelessly at his side.
‘The doctor, sir,’ said the maid in the doorway.
Pollyanna rose at once.
John Pendleton turned to her feverishly.
‘Pollyanna, for Heaven’s sake, say nothing of what I asked
you—yet,’ he begged, in a low voice. Pollyanna dimpled into
a sunny smile.
‘Of course not! Just as if I didn’t know you’d rather tell
her yourself!’ she called back merrily over her shoulder.
John Pendleton fell limply back in his chair.
‘Why, what’s up?’ demanded the doctor, a minute later,
his fingers on his patient’s galloping pulse.
A whimsical smile trembled on John Pendleton’s lips.
‘Overdose of your—tonic, I guess,’ he laughed, as he not-
ed the doctor’s eyes following Pollyanna’s little figure down
the driveway.
154 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XX. WHICH
IS MORE SURPRISING
S unday mornings Pollyanna usually attended church and

Sunday school. Sunday afternoons she frequently went
for a walk with Nancy. She had planned one for the day after
her Saturday afternoon visit to Mr. John Pendleton; but on
the way home from Sunday school Dr. Chilton overtook her
in his gig, and brought his horse to a stop.
‘Suppose you let me drive you home, Pollyanna,’ he sug-
gested. ‘I want to speak to you a minute. I, was just driving
out to your place to tell you,’ he went on, as Pollyanna set-
tled herself at his side. ‘Mr. Pendleton sent a special request
for you to go to see him this afternoon, SURE. He says it’s
very important.’
Pollyanna nodded happily.
‘Yes, it is, I know. I’ll go.’
The doctor eyed her with some surprise.
‘I’m not sure I shall let you, after all,’ he declared, his eyes
twinkling. ‘You seemed more upsetting than soothing yes-
terday, young lady.’
Pollyanna laughed.
‘Oh, it wasn’t me, truly—not really, you know; not so
much as it was Aunt Polly.’
The doctor turned with a quick start.

‘Your—aunt!’ he ejaculated.
Pollyanna gave a happy little bounce in her seat.
‘Yes. And it’s so exciting and lovely, just like a story, you
know. I—I’m going to tell you,’ she burst out, with sudden
decision. He said not to mention it; but he wouldn’t mind
your knowing, of course. He meant not to mention it to
HER.’
‘HER?’
‘Yes; Aunt Polly. And, of course he WOULD want to tell
her himself instead of having me do it—lovers, so!’
‘Lovers!’ As the doctor said the word, the horse started
violently, as if the hand that held the reins had given them
a sharp jerk.
‘Yes,’ nodded Pollyanna, happily. ‘That’s the story-part,
you see. I didn’t know it till Nancy told me. She said Aunt
Polly had a lover years ago, and they quarrelled. She didn’t
know who it was at first. But we’ve found out now. It’s Mr.
Pendleton, you know.’
The doctor relaxed suddenly, The hand holding the reins
fell limply to his lap.
‘Oh! No; I—didn’t know,’ he said quietly.
Pollyanna hurried on—they were nearing the Har-
rington homestead.
‘Yes; and I’m so glad now. It’s come out lovely. Mr. Pend-
leton asked me to come and live with him, but of course
I wouldn’t leave Aunt Polly like that—after she’d been so
good to me. Then he told me all about the woman’s hand
and heart that he used to want, and I found out that he
wanted it now; and I was so glad! For of course if he wants
156 Pollyanna
to make up the quarrel, everything will be all right now,
and Aunt Polly and I will both go to live there, or else he’ll
come to live with us. Of course Aunt Polly doesn’t know yet,
and we haven’t got everything settled; so I suppose that is
why he wanted to see me this afternoon, sure.’
The doctor sat suddenly erect. There was an odd smile
on his lips.
‘Yes; I can well imagine that Mr. John Pendleton does—
want to see you, Pollyanna,’ he nodded, as he pulled his
horse to a stop before the door.
‘There’s Aunt Polly now in the window,’ cried Pollyanna;
then, a second later: ‘Why, no, she isn’t—but I thought I saw
her!’
‘No; she isn’t there—now,’ said the doctor, His lips had
suddenly lost their smile.
Pollyanna found a very nervous John Pendleton waiting
for her that afternoon.
‘Pollyanna,’ he began at once. ‘I’ve been trying all night
to puzzle out what you meant by all that, yesterday—about
my wanting your Aunt Polly’s hand and heart here all those
years. What did you mean?’
‘Why, because you were lovers, you know once; and I was
so glad you still felt that way now.’
‘Lovers!—your Aunt Polly and I?’
At the obvious surprise in the man’s voice, Pollyanna
opened wide her eyes.’
‘Why, Mr. Pendleton, Nancy said you were!’
The man gave a short little laugh.
‘Indeed! Well, I’m afraid I shall have to say that Nancy—

didn’t know.’
‘Then you—weren’t lovers? Pollyanna’s Voice was tragic
with dismay.
‘Never!’
‘And it ISN’T all coming out like a book?’
There was no answer. The man’s eyes were moodily fixed
out the window.
‘O dear! And it was all going so splendidly,’ almost
sobbed Pollyanna. ‘I’d have been so glad to come—with
Aunt Polly.’
‘And you won’t—now?’ The man asked the question with-
out turning his head.
‘Of course not! I’m Aunt Polly’s.’
The man turned now, almost fiercely.
‘Before you were hers, Pollyanna, you were—your moth-
er’s. And—it was your mother’s hand and heart that I
wanted long years ago.’
‘My mother’s!’
‘Yes. I had not meant to tell you, but perhaps it’s better,
after all, that I do—now.’ John Pendleton’s face had grown
very white. He was speaking with evident difficulty. Pol-
lyanna, her eyes wide and frightened, and her lips parted,
was gazing at him fixedly. ‘I loved your mother; but she—
didn’t love me. And after a time she went away with—your
father. I did not know until then how much I did—care. The
whole world suddenly seemed to turn black under my fin-
gers, and—But, never mind. For long years I have been a
cross, crabbed, unlovable, unloved old man—though I’m
not nearly sixty, yet, Pollyanna. Then, One day, like one of
158 Pollyanna
the prisms that you love so well, little girl, you danced into
my life, and flecked my dreary old world with dashes of the
purple and gold and scarlet of your own bright cheeriness. I
found out, after a time, who you were, and—and I thought
then I never wanted to see you again. I didn’t want to be re-
minded of—your mother. But—you know how that came
out. I just had to have you come. And now I want you al-
ways. Pollyanna, won’t you come NOW?’
‘But, Mr. Pendleton, I—There’s Aunt Polly!’ Pollyanna’s
eyes were blurred with tears.
The man made an impatient gesture.
‘What about me? How do you suppose I’m going to be
‘glad’ about anything—without you? Why, Pollyanna, it’s
only since you came that I’ve been even half glad to live! But
if I had you for my own little girl, I’d be glad for—anything;
and I’d try to make you glad, too, my dear. You shouldn’t
have a wish ungratified. All my money, to the last cent,
should go to make you happy.’
‘Why, Mr. Pendleton, as if I’d let you spend it on me—all
that money you’ve saved for the heathen!’
A dull red came to the man’s face. He started to speak,
but Pollyanna was still talking.
‘Besides, anybody with such a lot of money as you have
doesn’t need me to make you glad about things. You’re
making other folks so glad giving them things that you just
can’t help being glad yourself! Why, look at those prisms
you gave Mrs. Snow and me, and the gold piece you gave
Nancy on her birthday, and—‘

‘Yes, yes—never mind about all that,’ interrupted the
man. His face was very, very red now—and no wonder, per-
haps: it was not for ‘giving things’ that John Pendleton had
been best known in the past. ‘That’s all nonsense. ‘Twasn’t
much, anyhow—but what there was, was because of you.
YOU gave those things; not I! Yes, you did,’ he repeated, in
answer to the shocked denial in her face. ‘And that only
goes to prove all the more how I need you, little girl,’ he
added, his voice softening into tender pleading once more.
‘If ever, ever I am to play the ‘glad game,’ Pollyanna, you’ll
have to come and play it with me.’
The little girl’s forehead puckered into a wistful frown.
‘Aunt Polly has been so good to me,’ she began; but the
man interrupted her sharply. The old irritability had come
back to his face. Impatience which would brook no opposi-
tion had been a part of John Pendleton’s nature too long to
yield very easily now to restraint.
‘Of course she’s been good to you! But she doesn’t want
you, I’ll warrant, half so much as I do,’ he contested.
‘Why, Mr. Pendleton, she’s glad, I know, to have—‘
‘Glad!’ interrupted the man, thoroughly losing his pa-
tience now. ‘I’ll wager Miss Polly doesn’t know how to be
glad—for anything! Oh, she does her duty, I know. She’s a
very DUTIFUL woman. I’ve had experience with her ‘duty,’
before. I’ll acknowledge we haven’t been the best of friends
for the last fifteen or twenty years. But I know her. Every
one knows her—and she isn’t the ‘glad’ kind, Pollyanna.
She doesn’t know how to be. As for your coming to me—
you just ask her and see if she won’t let you come. And, oh,
160 Pollyanna
little girl, little girl, I want you so!’ he finished brokenly.
Pollyanna rose to her feet with a long sigh.
‘All right. I’ll ask her,’ she said wistfully. ‘Of course I don’t
mean that I wouldn’t like to live here with you, Mr. Pendle-
ton, but—‘ She did not complete her sentence. There was a
moment’s silence, then she added: ‘Well, anyhow, I’m glad I
didn’t tell her yesterday;—‘cause then I supposed SHE was
wanted, too.’
John Pendleton smiled grimly.
‘Well, yes, Pollyanna; I guess it is just as well you didn’t
mention it—yesterday.’
‘I didn’t—only to the doctor; and of course he doesn’t
count.’
‘The doctor!’ cried John Pendleton, turning quickly.
‘Not—Dr.—Chilton?’
‘Yes; when he came to tell me you wanted to see me to-
day, you know.’
‘Well, of all the—‘ muttered the man, falling back in his
chair. Then he sat up with sudden interest. ‘And what did
Dr. Chilton say?’ he asked.
Pollyanna frowned thoughtfully.
‘Why, I don’t remember. Not much, I reckon. Oh, he did
say he could well imagine you did want to see me.’
‘Oh, did he, indeed!’ answered John Pendleton. And
Pollyanna wondered why he gave that sudden queer little
laugh.

CHAPTER XXI. A
QUESTION ANSWERED
T he sky was darkening fast with what appeared to be an

approaching thunder shower when Pollyanna hurried
down the hill from John Pendleton’s house. Half-way home
she met Nancy with an umbrella. By that time, however, the
clouds had shifted their position and the shower was not so
imminent.
‘Guess it’s goin’ ‘round ter the north,’ announced Nancy,
eyeing the sky critically. I thought ‘twas, all the time, but
Miss Polly wanted me ter come with this. She was WOR-
RIED about ye!’
‘Was she?’ murmured Pollyanna abstractedly, eyeing the
clouds in her turn.
Nancy sniffed a little.
‘You don’t seem ter notice what I said,’ she observed ag-
grievedly. ‘I said yer aunt was WORRIED about ye!’
‘Oh,’ sighed Pollyanna, remembering suddenly the ques-
tion she was so soon to ask her aunt. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t
mean to scare her.’
‘Well, I’m glad,’ retorted Nancy, unexpectedly. ‘I am, I
am.’
Pollyanna stared.
‘GLAD that Aunt Polly was scared about me! Why, Nan-
162 Pollyanna
cy, THAT isn’t the way to play the game—to be glad for
things like that!’ she objected.
‘There wa’n’t no game in it,’ retorted Nancy. ‘Never
thought of it. YOU don’t seem ter sense what it means ter
have Miss Polly WORRIED about ye, child!’
‘Why, it means worried—and worried is horrid—to feel,’
maintained Pollyanna. ‘What else can it mean?’
Nancy tossed her head.
‘Well, I’ll tell ye what it means. It means she’s at last get-
tin’ down somewheres near human—like folks; an’ that she
ain’t jest doin’ her duty by ye all the time.’
‘Why, Nancy,’ demurred the scandalized Pollyanna,
‘Aunt Polly always does her duty. She—she’s a very dutiful
woman!’ Unconsciously Pollyanna repeated John Pendle-
ton’s words of half an hour before.
Nancy chuckled.
‘You’re right she is—and she always was, I guess! But
she’s somethin’ more, now, since you came.’
Pollyanna’s face changed. Her brows drew into a trou-
bled frown.
‘There, that’s what I was going to ask you, Nancy,’ she
sighed. ‘Do you think Aunt Polly likes to have me here?
Would she mind—if if I wasn’t here any more?’
Nancy threw a quick look into the little girl’s absorbed
face. She had expected to be asked this question long before,
and she had dreaded it. She had wondered how she should
answer it—how she could answer it honestly without cru-
elly hurting the questioner. But now, NOW, in the face of
the new suspicions that had become convictions by the

afternoon’s umbrella-sending—Nancy only welcomed the
question with open arms. She was sure that, with a clean
conscience to-day, she could set the love-hungry little girl’s
heart at rest.
‘Likes ter have ye here? Would she miss ye if ye wa’n’t
here?’ cried Nancy, indignantly. ‘As if that wa’n’t jest what
I was tellin’ of ye! Didn’t she send me posthaste with an
umbrella ‘cause she see a little cloud in the sky? Didn’t she
make me tote yer things all down-stairs, so you could have
the pretty room you wanted? Why, Miss Pollyanna, when
ye remember how at first she hated ter have—‘
With a choking cough Nancy pulled herself up just in
time.
‘And it ain’t jest things I can put my fingers on, neither,’
rushed on Nancy, breathlessly. ‘It’s little ways she has, that
shows how you’ve been softenin’ her up an’ mellerin’ her
down—the cat, and the dog, and the way she speaks ter me,
and oh, lots o’ things. Why, Miss Pollyanna, there ain’t no
tellin’ how she’d miss ye—if ye wa’n’t here,’ finished Nan-
cy, speaking with an enthusiastic certainty that was meant
to hide the perilous admission she had almost made before.
Even then she was not quite prepared for the sudden joy
that illumined Pollyanna’s face.
‘Oh, Nancy, I’m so glad—glad—glad! You don’t know
how glad I am that Aunt Polly—wants me!’
‘As if I’d leave her now!’ thought Pollyanna, as she
climbed the stairs to her room a little later. ‘I always knew I
wanted to live with Aunt Polly—but I reckon maybe I didn’t
know quite how much I wanted Aunt Polly—to want to live
164 Pollyanna
with ME!’
The task of telling John Pendleton of her decision would
not be an easy one, Pollyanna knew, and she dreaded it. She
was very fond of John Pendleton, and she was very sorry for
him—because he seemed to be so sorry for himself. She was
sorry, too, for the long, lonely life that had made him so un-
happy; and she was grieved that it had been because of her
mother that he had spent those dreary years. She pictured
the great gray house as it would be after its master was well
again, with its silent rooms, its littered floors, its disordered
desk; and her heart ached for his loneliness. She wished that
somewhere, some one might be found who—And it was at
this point that she sprang to her feet with a little cry of joy
at the thought that had come to her.
As soon as she could, after that, she hurried up the hill to
John Pendleton’s house; and in due time she found herself
in the great dim library, with John Pendleton himself sit-
ting near her, his long, thin hands lying idle on the arms of
his chair, and his faithful little dog at his feet.
Well, Pollyanna, is it to be the ‘glad game’ with me, all
the rest of my life?’ asked the man, gently.
‘Oh, yes,’ cried Pollyanna. ‘I’ve thought of the very glad-
dest kind of a thing for you to do, and—‘
‘With—YOU?’ asked John Pendleton, his mouth growing
a little stern at the corners.
‘N-no; but—‘
‘Pollyanna, you aren’t going to say no!’ interrupted a
voice deep with emotion.
‘I—I’ve got to, Mr. Pendleton; truly I have. Aunt Polly—‘

‘Did she REFUSE—to let you—come?
‘I—I didn’t ask her,’ stammered the little girl, miserably.
‘Pollyanna!’
Pollyanna turned away her eyes. She could not meet the
hurt, grieved gaze of her friend.
‘So you didn’t even ask her!’
‘I couldn’t, sir—truly,’ faltered Pollyanna. ‘You see, I
found out—without asking. Aunt Polly WANTS me with
her, and—and I want to stay, too,’ she confessed brave-
ly. ‘You don’t know how good she’s been to me; and—and
I think, really, sometimes she’s beginning to be glad about
things—lots of things. And you know she never used to be.
You said it yourself. Oh, Mr. Pendleton, I COULDN’T leave
Aunt Polly—now!’
There was a long pause. Only the snapping of the wood
fire in the grate broke the silence. At last, however, the man
spoke.
‘No, Pollyanna; I see. You couldn’t leave her—now,’ he
said. ‘I won’t ask you—again.’ The last word was so low it
was almost inaudible; but Pollyanna heard.
‘Oh, but you don’t know about the rest of it,’ she remind-
ed him eagerly. ‘There’s the very gladdest thing you CAN
do—truly there is!’
‘Not for me, Pollyanna.’
‘Yes, sir, for you. You SAID it. You said only a—a wom-
an’s hand and heart or a child’s presence could make a home.
And I can get it for you—a child’s presence;—not me, you
know, but another one.’
‘As if I would have any but you!’ resented an indignant
166 Pollyanna
voice.
‘But you will—when you know; you’re so kind and good!
Why, think of the prisms and the gold pieces, and all that
money you save for the heathen, and—‘
‘Pollyanna!’ interrupted the man, savagely. ‘Once for all
let us end that nonsense! I’ve tried to tell you half a doz-
en times before. There is no money for the heathen. I never
sent a penny to them in my life. There!’
He lifted his chin and braced himself to meet what he
expected—the grieved disappointment of Pollyanna’s eyes.
To his amazement, however, there was neither grief nor dis-
appointment in Pollyanna’s eyes. There was only surprised
joy.
‘Oh, oh!’ she cried, clapping her hands. ‘I’m so glad! That
is,’ she corrected, coloring distressfully, ‘I don’t mean that
I’m not sorry for the heathen, only just now I can’t help be-
ing glad that you don’t want the little India boys, because
all the rest have wanted them. And so I’m glad you’d rather
have Jimmy Bean. Now I know you’ll take him!’
‘Take—WHO?’
‘Jimmy Bean. He’s the ‘child’s presence,’ you know; and
he’ll be so glad to be it. I had to tell him last week that even
my Ladies’ Aid out West wouldn’t take him, and he was so
disappointed. But now—when he hears of this—he’ll be so
glad!’
‘Will he? Well, I won’t,’ ejaculated the man, decisively.
‘Pollyanna, this is sheer nonsense!’
‘You don’t mean—you won’t take him?’
‘I certainly do mean just that.’

‘But he’d be a lovely child’s presence,’ faltered Pollyanna.
She was almost crying now. ‘And you COULDN’T be lone-
some—with Jimmy ‘round.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ rejoined the man; ‘but—I think I prefer
the lonesomeness.’
It was then that Pollyanna, for the first time in weeks,
suddenly remembered something Nancy had once told her.
She raised her chin aggrievedly.
‘Maybe you think a nice live little boy wouldn’t be bet-
ter than that old dead skeleton you keep somewhere; but I
think it would!’
‘SKELETON?’
‘Yes. Nancy said you had one in your closet, somewhere.’
‘Why, what—‘ Suddenly the man threw back his head
and laughed. He laughed very heartily indeed—so heartily
that Pollyanna began to cry from pure nervousness. When
he saw that, John Pendleton sat erect very promptly. His
face grew grave at once.
‘Pollyanna, I suspect you are right—more right than you
know,’ he said gently. ‘In fact, I KNOW that a ‘nice live little
boy’ would be far better than—my skeleton in the closet;
only—we aren’t always willing to make the exchange. We
are apt to still cling to—our skeletons, Pollyanna. However,
suppose you tell me a little more about this nice little boy.’
And Pollyanna told him.
Perhaps the laugh cleared the air; or perhaps the pathos
of Jimmy Bean’s story as told by Pollyanna’s eager little lips
touched a heart already strangely softened. At all events,
when Pollyanna went home that night she carried with her
168 Pollyanna
an invitation for Jimmy Bean himself to call at the great
house with Pollyanna the next Saturday afternoon.
‘And I’m so glad, and I’m sure you’ll like him,’ sighed Pol-
lyanna, as she said good-by. ‘I do so want Jimmy Bean to
have a home—and folks that care, you know.’

CHAPTER XXII. SERMONS
AND WOODBOXES
O n the afternoon that Pollyanna told John Pendleton

of Jimmy Bean, the Rev. Paul Ford climbed the hill
and entered the Pendleton Woods, hoping that the hushed
beauty of God’s out-of-doors would still the tumult that His
children of men had wrought.
The Rev. Paul Ford was sick at heart. Month by month,
for a year past, conditions in the parish under him had
been growing worse and worse; until it seemed that now,
turn which way he would, he encountered only wrangling,
backbiting, scandal, and jealousy. He had argued, pleaded,
rebuked, and ignored by turns; and always and through all
he had prayed—earnestly, hopefully. But to-day miserably
he was forced to own that matters were no better, but rather
worse.
Two of his deacons were at swords’ points over a sil-
ly something that only endless brooding had made of any
account. Three of his most energetic women workers had
withdrawn from the Ladies’ Aid Society because a tiny
spark of gossip had been fanned by wagging tongues into
a devouring flame of scandal. The choir had split over the
amount of solo work given to a fanciedly preferred singer.
Even the Christian Endeavor Society was in a ferment of
170 Pollyanna
unrest owing to open criticism of two of its officers. As to
the Sunday school—it had been the resignation of its su-
perintendent and two of its teachers that had been the last
straw, and that had sent the harassed minister to the quiet
woods for prayer and meditation.
Under the green arch of the trees the Rev. Paul Ford
faced the thing squarely. To his mind, the crisis had come.
Something must be done—and done at once. The entire
work of the church was at a standstill. The Sunday servic-
es, the week-day prayer meeting, the missionary teas, even
the suppers and socials were becoming less and less well
attended. True, a few conscientious workers were still left.
But they pulled at cross purposes, usually; and always they
showed themselves to be acutely aware of the critical eyes
all about them, and of the tongues that had nothing to do
but to talk about what the eyes saw.
And because of all this, the Rev. Paul Ford understood
very well that he (God’s minister), the church, the town, and
even Christianity itself was suffering; and must suffer still
more unless—
Clearly something must be done, and done at once. But
what?
Slowly the minister took from his pocket the notes he
had made for his next Sunday’s sermon. Frowningly he
looked at them. His mouth settled into stern lines, as aloud,
very impressively, he read the verses on which he had deter-
mined to speak:
‘ ‘But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!
for ye shut up the kingdom of heaven against men: for ye

neither go in yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are en-
tering to go in.’
‘ ‘Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for
ye devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make long
prayer: therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation.’
‘ ‘Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye
pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omit-
ted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and
faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other
undone.’ ‘
It was a bitter denunciation. In the green aisles of the
woods, the minister’s deep voice rang out with scathing ef-
fect. Even the birds and squirrels seemed hushed into awed
silence. It brought to the minister a vivid realization of
how those words would sound the next Sunday when he
should utter them before his people in the sacred hush of
the church.
His people!—they WERE his people. Could he do it?
Dare he do it? Dare he not do it? It was a fearful denuncia-
tion, even without the words that would follow—his own
words. He had prayed and prayed. He had pleaded earnest-
ly for help, for guidance. He longed—oh, how earnestly he
longed!—to take now, in this crisis, the right step. But was
this—the right step?
Slowly the minister folded the papers and thrust them
back into his pocket. Then, with a sigh that was almost a
moan, he flung himself down at the foot of a tree, and cov-
ered his face with his hands.
It was there that Pollyanna, on her way home from the
172 Pollyanna
Pendleton house, found him. With a little cry she ran for-
ward.
‘Oh, oh, Mr. Ford! You—YOU haven’t broken YOUR leg
or—or anything, have you?’ she gasped.
The minister dropped his hands, and looked up quickly.
He tried to smile.
‘No, dear—no, indeed! I’m just—resting.’
‘Oh,’ sighed Pollyanna, falling back a little. ‘That’s all
right, then. You see, Mr. Pendleton HAD broken his leg
when I found him—but he was lying down, though. And
you are sitting up.’
‘Yes, I am sitting up; and I haven’t broken anything—that
doctors can mend.’
The last words were very low, but Pollyanna heard them.
A swift change crossed her face. Her eyes glowed with ten-
der sympathy.
‘I know what you mean—something plagues you. Father
used to feel like that, lots of times. I reckon ministers do—
most generally. You see there’s such a lot depends on ‘em,
somehow.’
The Rev. Paul Ford turned a little wonderingly.
‘Was YOUR father a minister, Pollyanna?’
‘Yes, sir. Didn’t you know? I supposed everybody knew
that. He married Aunt Polly’s sister, and she was my moth-
er.’
‘Oh, I understand. But, you see, I haven’t been here many
years, so I don’t know all the family histories.’
‘Yes, sir—I mean, no, sir,’ smiled Pollyanna.
There was a long pause. The minister, still sitting at the

foot of the tree, appeared to have forgotten Pollyanna’s
presence. He had pulled some papers from his pocket and
unfolded them; but he was not looking at them. He was
gazing, instead, at a leaf on the ground a little distance
away—and it was not even a pretty leaf. It was brown and
dead. Pollyanna, looking at him, felt vaguely sorry for him.
‘It—it’s a nice day,’ she began hopefully.
For a moment there was no answer; then the minister
looked up with a start.
‘What? Oh!—yes, it is a very nice day.’
‘And ‘tisn’t cold at all, either, even if ‘tis October,’ ob-
served Pollyanna, still more hopefully. ‘Mr. Pendleton had
a fire, but he said he didn’t need it. It was just to look at. I
like to look at fires, don’t you?’
There was no reply this time, though Pollyanna waited
patiently, before she tried again—by a new route.
‘Do You like being a minister?’
The Rev. Paul Ford looked up now, very quickly.
‘Do I like—Why, what an odd question! Why do you ask
that, my dear?’
‘Nothing—only the way you looked. It made me think of
my father. He used to look like that—sometimes.’
‘Did he?’ The minister’s voice was polite, but his eyes had
gone back to the dried leaf on the ground.
‘Yes, and I used to ask him just as I did you if he was glad
he was a minister.’
The man under the tree smiled a little sadly.
‘Well—what did he say?’
‘Oh, he always said he was, of course, but ‘most always
174 Pollyanna
he said, too, that he wouldn’t STAY a minister a minute if
‘twasn’t for the rejoicing texts.’
‘The—WHAT?’ The Rev. Paul Ford’s eyes left the leaf and
gazed wonderingly into Pollyanna’s merry little face.
‘Well, that’s what father used to call ‘em,’ she laughed. ‘Of
course the Bible didn’t name ‘em that. But it’s all those that
begin ‘Be glad in the Lord,’ or ‘Rejoice greatly,’ or ‘Shout for
joy,’ and all that, you know—such a lot of ‘em. Once, when
father felt specially bad, he counted ‘em. There were eight
hundred of ‘em.’
‘Eight hundred!’
‘Yes—that told you to rejoice and be glad, you know;
that’s why father named ‘em the ‘rejoicing texts.’ ‘
‘Oh!’ There was an odd look on the minister’s face. His
eyes had fallen to the words on the top paper in his hands—
‘But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!’ ‘And
so your father—liked those ‘rejoicing texts,’ ‘ he mur-
mured.
‘Oh, yes,’ nodded Pollyanna, emphatically. ‘He said he felt
better right away, that first day he thought to count ‘em. He
said if God took the trouble to tell us eight hundred times
to be glad and rejoice, He must want us to do it—SOME.
And father felt ashamed that he hadn’t done it more. After
that, they got to be such a comfort to him, you know, when
things went wrong; when the Ladies’ Aiders got to fight—I
mean, when they DIDN’T AGREE about something,’ cor-
rected Pollyanna, hastily. ‘Why, it was those texts, too,
father said, that made HIM think of the game—he began
with ME on the crutches—but he said ‘twas the rejoicing

texts that started him on it.’
‘And what game might that be?’ asked the minister.
‘About finding something in everything to be glad about,
you know. As I said, he began with me on the crutches.’ And
once more Pollyanna told her story—this time to a man
who listened with tender eyes and understanding ears.
A little later Pollyanna and the minister descended the
hill, hand in hand. Pollyanna’s face was radiant. Pollyanna
loved to talk, and she had been talking now for some time:
there seemed to be so many, many things about the game,
her father, and the old home life that the minister wanted
to know.
At the foot of the hill their ways parted, and Pollyanna
down one road, and the minister down another, walked on
alone.
In the Rev. Paul Ford’s study that evening the minister
sat thinking. Near him on the desk lay a few loose sheets
of paper—his sermon notes. Under the suspended pencil in
his fingers lay other sheets of paper, blank—his sermon to
be. But the minister was not thinking either of what he had
written, or of what be intended to write. In his imagination
he was far away in a little Western town with a missionary
minister who was poor, sick, worried, and almost alone in
the world—but who was poring over the Bible to find how
many times his Lord and Master had told him to ‘rejoice
and be glad.’
After a time, with a long sigh, the Rev. Paul Ford roused
himself, came back from the far Western town, and adjust-
ed the sheets of paper under his hand.
176 Pollyanna
‘Matthew twenty-third; 13—14 and 23,’ he wrote; then,
with a gesture of impatience, he dropped his pencil and
pulled toward him a magazine left on the desk by his wife
a few minutes before. Listlessly his tired eyes turned from
paragraph to paragraph until these words arrested them:
‘A father one day said to his son, Tom, who, he knew, had
refused to fill his mother’s woodbox that morning: ‘Tom,
I’m sure you’ll be glad to go and bring in some wood for
your mother.’ And without a word Tom went. Why? Just
because his father showed so plainly that he expected him
to do the right thing. Suppose he had said: ‘Tom, I over-
heard what you said to your mother this morning, and I’m
ashamed of you. Go at once and fill that woodbox!’ I’ll war-
rant that woodbox, would be empty yet, so far as Tom was
concerned!’
On and on read the minister—a word here, a line there, a
paragraph somewhere else:
‘What men and women need is encouragement. Their
natural resisting powers should be strengthened, not weak-
ened…. Instead of always harping on a man’s faults, tell him
of his virtues. Try to pull him out of his rut of bad habits.
Hold up to him his better self, his REAL self that can dare
and do and win out! … The influence of a beautiful, help-
ful, hopeful character is contagious, and may revolutionize
a whole town…. People radiate what is in their minds and
in their hearts. If a man feels kindly and obliging, his neigh-
bors will feel that way, too, before long. But if he scolds and
scowls and criticizes—his neighbors will return scowl for
scowl, and add interest! … When you look for the bad, ex-

pecting it, you will get it. When you know you will find the
good—you will get that…. Tell your son Tom you KNOW
he’ll be glad to fill that woodbox—then watch him start,
alert and interested!’
The minister dropped the paper and lifted his chin. In a
moment he was on his feet, tramping the narrow room back
and forth, back and forth. Later, some time later, he drew a
long breath, and dropped himself in the chair at his desk.
‘God helping me, I’ll do it!’ he cried softly. ‘I’ll tell all my
Toms I KNOW they’ll be glad to fill that woodbox! I’ll give
them work to do, and I’ll make them so full of the very joy
of doing it that they won’t have TIME to look at their neigh-
bors’ woodboxes!’ And he picked up his sermon notes, tore
straight through the sheets, and cast them from him, so that
on one side of his chair lay ‘But woe unto you,’ and on the
other, ‘scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!’ while across the
smooth white paper before him his pencil fairly flew—after
first drawing one black line through Matthew twenty-third;
13—14 and 23.’
Thus it happened that the Rev. Paul Ford’s sermon the
next Sunday was a veritable bugle-call to the best that was
in every man and woman and child that heard it; and its
text was one of Pollyanna’s shining eight hundred:
‘Be glad in the Lord and rejoice, ye righteous, and shout
for joy all ye that are upright in heart.’
178 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XXIII.
AN ACCIDENT
A t Mrs. Snow’s request, Pollyanna went one day to Dr.

Chilton’s office to get the name of a medicine which
Mrs. Snow had forgotten. As it chanced, Pollyanna had nev-
er before seen the inside of Dr. Chilton’s office.
‘I’ve never been to your home before! This IS your home,
isn’t it?’ she said, looking interestedly about her.
The doctor smiled a little sadly.
‘Yes—such as ‘tis,’ he answered, as he wrote something
on the pad of paper in his hand; ‘but it’s a pretty poor apolo-
gy for a home, Pollyanna. They’re just rooms, that’s all—not
a home.’
Pollyanna nodded her head wisely. Her eyes glowed with
sympathetic understanding.
‘I know. It takes a woman’s hand and heart, or a child’s
presence to make a home,’ she said.
‘Eh?’ The doctor wheeled about abruptly.
‘Mr. Pendleton told me,’ nodded Pollyanna, again; ‘about
the woman’s hand and heart, or the child’s presence, you
know. Why don’t you get a woman’s hand and heart, Dr.
Chilton? Or maybe you’d take Jimmy Bean—if Mr. Pendle-
ton doesn’t want him.’
Dr. Chilton laughed a little constrainedly.

‘So Mr. Pendleton says it takes a woman’s hand and heart
to make a home, does he?’ he asked evasively.
‘Yes. He says his is just a house, too. Why don’t you, Dr.
Chilton?’
‘Why don’t I—what?’ The doctor had turned back to his
desk.
‘Get a woman’s hand and heart. Oh—and I forgot.’ Pol-
lyanna’s face showed suddenly a painful color. ‘I suppose I
ought to tell you. It wasn’t Aunt Polly that Mr. Pendleton
loved long ago; and so we—we aren’t going there to live. You
see, I told you it was—but I made a mistake. I hope YOU
didn’t tell any one,’ she finished anxiously.
‘No—I didn’t tell any one, Pollyanna,’ replied the doctor,
a little queerly.
‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ sighed Pollyanna in relief. ‘You
see you’re the only one I told, and I thought Mr. Pendleton
looked sort of funny when I said I’d told YOU.’
‘Did he?’ The doctor’s lips twitched.
‘Yes. And of course he wouldn’t want many people to
know it—when ‘twasn’t true. But why don’t you get a wom-
an’s hand and heart, Dr. Chilton?’
There was a moment’s silence; then very gravely the doc-
tor said:
‘They’re not always to be had—for the asking, little girl.’
Pollyanna frowned thoughtfully.
‘But I should think you could get ‘em,’ she argued. The
flattering emphasis was unmistakable.
‘Thank you,’ laughed the doctor, with uplifted eyebrows.
Then, gravely again: ‘I’m afraid some of your older sisters
180 Pollyanna
would not be quite so—confident. At least, they—they
haven’t shown themselves to be so—obliging,’ he observed.
Pollyanna frowned again. Then her eyes widened in sur-
prise.
‘Why, Dr. Chilton, you don’t mean—you didn’t try to get
somebody’s hand and heart once, like Mr. Pendleton, and—
and couldn’t, did you?’
The doctor got to his feet a little abruptly.
‘There, there, Pollyanna, never mind about that now.
Don’t let other people’s troubles worry your little head. Sup-
pose you run back now to Mrs. Snow. I’ve written down the
name of the medicine, and the directions how she is to take
it. Was there anything else?’
‘No, Sir; thank you, Sir,’ she murmured soberly, as she
turned toward the door. From the little hallway she called
back, her face suddenly alight: ‘Anyhow, I’m glad ‘twasn’t
my mother’s hand and heart that you wanted and couldn’t
get, Dr. Chilton. Good-by!’
It was on the last day of October that the accident oc-
curred. Pollyanna, hurrying home from school, crossed the
road at an apparently safe distance in front of a swiftly ap-
proaching motor car.
Just what happened, no one could seem to tell afterward.
Neither was there any one found who could tell why it hap-
pened or who was to blame that it did happen. Pollyanna,
however, at five o’clock, was borne, limp and unconscious,
into the little room that was so dear to her. There, by a white-
faced Aunt Polly and a weeping Nancy she was undressed

tenderly and put to bed, while from the village, hastily sum-
moned by telephone, Dr. Warren was hurrying as fast as
another motor car could bring him.
‘And ye didn’t need ter more’n look at her aunt’s face,’
Nancy was sobbing to Old Tom in the garden, after the doc-
tor had arrived and was closeted in the hushed room; ‘ye
didn’t need ter more’n look at her aunt’s face ter see that
‘twa’n’t no duty that was eatin’ her. Yer hands don’t shake,
and yer eyes don’t look as if ye was tryin’ ter hold back the
Angel o’ Death himself, when you’re jest doin’ yer DUTY,
Mr. Tom they don’t, they don’t!’
‘Is she hurt—bad?’ The old man’s voice shook.
‘There ain’t no tellin’,’ sobbed Nancy. ‘She lay back that
white an’ still she might easy be dead; but Miss Polly said
she wa’n’t dead—an’ Miss Polly had oughter know, if any
one would—she kept up such a listenin’ an’ a feelin’ for her
heartbeats an’ her breath!’
‘Couldn’t ye tell anythin’ what it done to her?—that—
that—‘ Old Tom’s face worked convulsively.
Nancy’s lips relaxed a little.
‘I wish ye WOULD call it somethin’, Mr. Tom an’ some-
thin’ good an’ strong, too. Drat it! Ter think of its runnin’
down our little girl! I always hated the evil-smellin’ things,
anyhow—I did, I did!’
‘But where is she hurt?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ moaned Nancy. There’s a lit-
tle cut on her blessed head, but ‘tain’t bad—that ain’t—Miss
Polly says. She says she’s afraid it’s infernally she’s hurt.’
A faint flicker came into Old Tom’s eyes.
182 Pollyanna
‘I guess you mean internally, Nancy,’ he said dryly. ‘She’s
hurt infernally, all right—plague take that autymobile!—but
I don’t guess Miss Polly’d be usin’ that word, all the same.’
‘Eh? Well, I don’t know, I don’t know,’ moaned Nancy,
with a shake of her head as she turned away. ‘Seems as if I
jest couldn’t stand it till that doctor gits out o’ there. I wish
I had a washin’ ter do—the biggest washin’ I ever see, I do, I
do!’ she wailed, wringing her hands helplessly.
Even after the doctor was gone, however, there seemed to
be little that Nancy could tell Mr. Tom. There appeared to
be no bones broken, and the cut was of slight consequence;
but the doctor had looked very grave, had shaken his head
slowly, and had said that time alone could tell. After he had
gone, Miss Polly had shown a face even whiter and more
drawn looking than before. The patient had not fully recov-
ered consciousness, but at present she seemed to be resting
as comfortably as could be expected. A trained nurse had
been sent for, and would come that night. That was all. And
Nancy turned sobbingly, and went back to her kitchen.
It was sometime during the next forenoon that Pollyan-
na opened conscious eyes and realized where she was.
‘Why, Aunt Polly, what’s the matter? Isn’t it daytime?
Why don’t I get up?’ she cried. ‘Why, Aunt Polly, I can’t get
up,’ she moaned, falling back on the pillow, after an ineffec-
tual attempt to lift herself.
‘No, dear, I wouldn’t try—just yet,’ soothed her aunt
quickly, but very quietly.
‘But what is the matter? Why can’t I get up?’
Miss Polly’s eyes asked an agonized question of the

white-capped young woman standing in the window, out of
the range of Pollyanna’s eyes.
The young woman nodded.
‘Tell her,’ the lips said.
Miss Polly cleared her throat, and tried to swallow the
lump that would scarcely let her speak.
‘You were hurt, dear, by the automobile last night. But
never mind that now. Auntie wants you to rest and go to
sleep again.’
‘Hurt? Oh, yes; I—I ran.’ Pollyanna’s eyes were dazed.
She lifted her hand to her forehead. ‘Why, it’s—done up,
and it—hurts!’
‘Yes, dear; but never mind. Just—just rest.’
‘But, Aunt Polly, I feel so funny, and so bad! My legs feel
so—so queer—only they don’t FEEL—at all!’
With an imploring look into the nurse’s face, Miss Polly
struggled to her feet, and turned away. The nurse came for-
ward quickly.
‘Suppose you let me talk to you now,’ she began cheerily.
‘I’m sure I think it’s high time we were getting acquainted,
and I’m going to introduce myself. I am Miss Hunt, and I’ve
come to help your aunt take care of you. And the very first
thing I’m going to do is to ask you to swallow these little
white pills for me.’
Pollyanna’s eyes grew a bit wild.
‘But I don’t want to be taken care of—that is, not for
long! I want to get up. You know I go to school. Can’t I go to
school to-morrow?’
From the window where Aunt Polly stood now there
184 Pollyanna
came a half-stifled cry.
‘To-morrow?’ smiled the nurse, brightly.
Well, I may not let you out quite so soon as that, Miss
Pollyanna. But just swallow these little pills for me, please,
and we’ll see what THEY’LL do.’
‘All right,’ agreed Pollyanna, somewhat doubtfully; ‘but I
MUST go to school day after to-morrow—there are exami-
nations then, you know.’
She spoke again, a minute later. She spoke of school, and
of the automobile, and of how her head ached; but very soon
her voice trailed into silence under the blessed influence of
the little white pills she had swallowed.

CHAPTER XXIV. JOHN
PENDLETON
P ollyanna did not go to school ‘to-morrow,’ nor the ‘day

after to-morrow.’ Pollyanna, however, did not realize
this, except momentarily when a brief period of full con-
sciousness sent insistent questions to her lips. Pollyanna did
not realize anything, in fact, very clearly until a week had
passed; then the fever subsided, the pain lessened some-
what, and her mind awoke to full consciousness. She had
then to be told all over again what had occurred.
‘And so it’s hurt that I am, and not sick,’ she sighed at last.
‘Well, I’m glad of that.’
‘G-glad, Pollyanna?’ asked her aunt, who was sitting by
the bed.
‘Yes. I’d so much rather have broken legs like Mr. Pend-
leton’s than life-long-invalids like Mrs. Snow, you know.
Broken legs get well, and lifelong-invalids don’t.’
Miss Polly—who had said nothing whatever about bro-
ken legs—got suddenly to her feet and walked to the little
dressing table across the room. She was picking up one ob-
ject after another now, and putting each down, in an aimless
fashion quite unlike her usual decisiveness. Her face was not
aimless-looking at all, however; it was white and drawn.
On the bed Pollyanna lay blinking at the dancing band
186 Pollyanna
of colors on the ceiling, which came from one of the prisms
in the window.
‘I’m glad it isn’t smallpox that ails me, too,’ she mur-
mured contentedly. ‘That would be worse than freckles.
And I’m glad ‘tisn’t whooping cough—I’ve had that, and it’s
horrid—and I’m glad ‘tisn’t appendicitis nor measles, ‘cause
they’re catching—measles are, I mean—and they wouldn’t
let you stay here.’
‘You seem to—to be glad for a good many things, my
dear,’ faltered Aunt Polly, putting her hand to her throat as
if her collar bound.
‘I am. I’ve been thinking of ‘em—lots of ‘em—all the time
I’ve been looking up at that rainbow. I love rainbows. I’m so
glad Mr. Pendleton gave me those prisms! I’m glad of some
things I haven’t said yet. I don’t know but I’m ‘most glad I
was hurt.’
‘Pollyanna!’
Pollyanna laughed softly again. She turned luminous
eyes on her aunt. ‘Well, you see, since I have been hurt,
you’ve called me ‘dear’ lots of times—and you didn’t be-
fore. I love to be called ‘dear’—by folks that belong to you,
I mean. Some of the Ladies’ Aiders did call me that; and of
course that was pretty nice, but not so nice as if they had
belonged to me, like you do. Oh, Aunt Polly, I’m so glad you
belong to me!’
Aunt Polly did not answer. Her hand was at her throat
again. Her eyes were full of tears. She had turned away and
was hurrying from the room through the door by which the

nurse had just entered.
It was that afternoon that Nancy ran out to Old Tom, who
was cleaning harnesses in the barn. Her eyes were wild.
‘Mr. Tom, Mr. Tom. guess what’s happened,’ she panted.
‘You couldn’t guess in a thousand years—you couldn’t, you
couldn’t!’
‘Then I cal’late I won’t try,’ retorted the man, grimly, ‘spe-
cially as I hain’t got more’n TEN ter live, anyhow, probably.
You’d better tell me first off, Nancy.’
‘Well, listen, then. Who do you s’pose is in the parlor now
with the mistress? Who, I say?’
‘There’s no tellin’,’ he declared.
‘Yes, there is. I’m tellin’. It’s—John Pendleton!’
‘Sho, now! You’re jokin’, girl.’
‘Not much I am—an’ me a-lettin’ him in myself—crutch-
es an’ all! An’ the team he come in a-waitin’ this minute at
the door for him, jest as if he wa’n’t the cranky old cross-
patch he is, what never talks ter no one! jest think, Mr.
Tom—HIM a-callin’ on HER!’
‘Well, why not?’ demanded the old man, a little aggres-
sively.
Nancy gave him a scornful glance.
‘As if you didn’t know better’n me!’ she derided.
‘Eh?’
‘Oh, you needn’t be so innercent,’ she retorted with mock
indignation; ‘—you what led me wildgoose chasin’ in the
first place!’
‘What do ye mean?’
188 Pollyanna
Nancy glanced through the open barn door toward the
house, and came a step nearer to the old man.
‘Listen! ‘Twas you that was tellin’ me Miss Polly had a
lover in the first place, wa’n’t it? Well, one day I thinks I
finds two and two, and I puts ‘em tergether an’ makes four.
But it turns out ter be five—an’ no four at all, at all!’
With a gesture of indifference Old Tom turned and fell
to work.
‘If you’re goin’ ter talk ter me, you’ve got ter talk plain
horse sense,’ he declared testily. ‘I never was no hand for
figgers.’
Nancy laughed.
‘Well, it’s this,’ she explained. ‘I heard somethin’ that
made me think him an’ Miss Polly was lovers.’
‘MR. PENDLETON!’ Old Tom straightened up.
‘Yes. Oh, I know now; he wasn’t. It was that blessed child’s
mother he was in love with, and that’s why he wanted—but
never mind that part,’ she added hastily, remembering just
in time her promise to Pollyanna not to tell that Mr. Pend-
leton had wished her to come and live with him. ‘Well, I’ve
been askin’ folks about him some, since, and I’ve found
out that him an’ Miss Polly hain’t been friends for years,
an’ that she’s been hatin’ him like pizen owin’ ter the sil-
ly gossip that coupled their names tergether when she was
eighteen or twenty.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ nodded Old Tom. ‘It was three or four
years after Miss Jennie give him the mitten and went off
with the other chap. Miss Polly knew about it, of course,
and was sorry for him. So she tried ter be nice to him. May-

be she overdid it a little—she hated that minister chap so
who had took off her sister. At any rate, somebody begun ter
make trouble. They said she was runnin’ after him.’
‘Runnin’ after any man—her!’ interjected Nancy.
‘I know it; but they did,’ declared Old Tom, ‘and of course
no gal of any spunk’ll stand that. Then about that time
come her own lover an’ the trouble with HIM. After that
she shut up like an oyster an’ wouldn’t have nothin’ ter do
with nobody fur a spell. Her heart jest seemed to turn bit-
ter at the core.’
‘Yes, I know. I’ve heard about that now,’ rejoined Nancy;
‘an’ that’s why you could ‘a’ knocked me down with a feather
when I see HIM at the door—him, what she hain’t spoke to
for years! But I let him in an’ went an’ told her.’
‘What did she say?’ Old Tom held his breath suspended.
‘Nothin’—at first. She was so still I thought she hadn’t
heard; and I was jest goin’ ter say it over when she speaks up
quiet like: ‘Tell Mr. Pendleton I will be down at once.’ An’ I
come an’ told him. Then I come out here an’ told you,’ fin-
ished Nancy, casting another backward glance toward the
house.
‘Humph!’ grunted Old Tom; and fell to work again.
In the ceremonious ‘parlor’ of the Harrington homestead,
Mr. John Pendleton did not have to wait long before a swift
step warned him of Miss Polly’s coming. As he attempted to
rise, she made a gesture of remonstrance. She did not offer
her hand, however, and her face was coldly reserved.
‘I called to ask for—Pollyanna,’ he began at once, a little
brusquely.
190 Pollyanna
‘Thank you. She is about the same,’ said Miss Polly.
‘And that is—won’t you tell me HOW she is? His voice
was not quite steady this time.
A quick spasm of pain crossed the woman’s face.
‘I can’t, I wish I could!’
‘You mean—you don’t know?’
‘Yes.’
‘But—the doctor?’
‘Dr. Warren himself seems—at sea. He is in correspon-
dence now with a New York specialist. They have arranged
for a consultation at once.’
‘But—but what WERE her injuries that you do know?’
‘A slight cut on the head, one or two bruises, and—and
an injury to the spine which has seemed to cause—paralysis
from the hips down.’
A low cry came from the man. There was a brief silence;
then, huskily, he asked:
‘And Pollyanna—how does she—take it?’
‘She doesn’t understand—at all—how things really are.
And I CAN’T tell her.’
‘But she must know—something!’
Miss Polly lifted her hand to the collar at her throat in
the gesture that had become so common to her of late.
‘Oh, yes. She knows she can’t—move; but she thinks her
legs are—broken. She says she’s glad it’s broken legs like
yours rather than ‘lifelong-invalids’ like Mrs. Snow’s; be-
cause broken legs get well, and the other—doesn’t. She talks
like that all the time, until it—it seems as if I should—die!’
Through the blur of tears in his own eyes, the man saw

the drawn face opposite, twisted with emotion. Involuntari-
ly his thoughts went back to what Pollyanna had said when
he had made his final plea for her presence: ‘Oh, I couldn’t
leave Aunt Polly—now!’
It was this thought that made him ask very gently, as
soon as he could control his voice:
‘I wonder if you know, Miss Harrington, how hard I tried
to get Pollyanna to come and live with me.’
‘With YOU!—Pollyanna!’
The man winced a little at the tone of her voice; but his
own voice was still impersonally cool when he spoke again.
‘Yes. I wanted to adopt her—legally, you understand;
making her my heir, of course.’
The woman in the opposite chair relaxed a little. It came
to her, suddenly, what a brilliant future it would have meant
for Pollyanna—this adoption; and she wondered if Pollyan-
na were old enough and mercenary enough—to be tempted
by this man’s money and position.
‘I am very fond of Pollyanna,’ the man was continuing. ‘I
am fond of her both for her own sake, and for—her moth-
er’s. I stood ready to give Pollyanna the love that had been
twenty-five years in storage.’
‘LOVE.’ Miss Polly remembered suddenly why SHE had
taken this child in the first place—and with the recollection
came the remembrance of Pollyanna’s own words uttered
that very morning: ‘I love to be called ‘dear’ by folks that be-
long to you!’ And it was this love-hungry little girl that had
been offered the stored-up affection of twenty-five years:—
and she was old enough to be tempted by love! With a
192 Pollyanna
sinking heart Miss Polly realized that. With a sinking heart,
too, she realized something else: the dreariness of her own
future now without Pollyanna.
‘Well?’ she said. And the man, recognizing the self-con-
trol that vibrated through the harshness of the tone, smiled
sadly.
‘She would not come,’ he answered.
‘Why?’
‘She would not leave you. She said you had been so
good to her. She wanted to stay with you—and she said
she THOUGHT you wanted her to stay,’ he finished, as he
pulled himself to his feet.
He did not look toward Miss Polly. He turned his face
resolutely toward the door. But instantly he heard a swift
step at his side, and found a shaking hand thrust toward
him.
‘When the specialist comes, and I know anything—defi-
nite about Pollyanna, I will let you hear from me,’ said a
trembling voice. ‘Good-by—and thank you for coming.
Pollyanna will be pleased.’

CHAPTER XXV. A
WAITING GAME
O n the day after John Pendleton’s call at the Harrington

homestead, Miss Polly set herself to the task of prepar-
ing Pollyanna for the visit of the specialist.
‘Pollyanna, my dear,’ she began gently, ‘we have decided
that we want another doctor besides Dr. Warren to see you.
Another one might tell us something new to do—to help
you get well faster, you know.’
A joyous light came to Pollyanna’s face.
‘Dr. Chilton! Oh, Aunt Polly, I’d so love to have Dr. Chil-
ton! I’ve wanted him all the time, but I was afraid you didn’t,
on account of his seeing you in the sun parlor that day, you
know; so I didn’t like to say anything. But I’m so glad you
do want him!’
Aunt Polly’s face had turned white, then red, then back
to white again. But when she answered, she showed very
plainly that she was trying to speak lightly and cheerfully.
‘Oh, no, dear! It wasn’t Dr. Chilton at all that I meant. It is
a new doctor—a very famous doctor from New York, who—
who knows a great deal about—about hurts like yours.’
‘I don’t believe he knows half so much as Dr. Chilton.’
‘Oh, yes, he does, I’m sure, dear.’
194 Pollyanna
‘But it was Dr. Chilton who doctored Mr. Pendleton’s
broken leg, Aunt Polly. If—if you don’t mind VERY much, I
WOULD LIKE to have Dr. Chilton—truly I would!’
A distressed color suffused Miss Polly’s face. For a mo-
ment she did not speak at all; then she said gently—though
yet with a touch of her old stern decisiveness:
‘But I do mind, Pollyanna. I mind very much. I would
do anything—almost anything for you, my dear; but I—for
reasons which I do not care to speak of now, I don’t wish
Dr. Chilton called in on—on this case. And believe me, he
can NOT know so much about—about your trouble, as this
great doctor does, who will come from New York to-mor-
row.’
Pollyanna still looked unconvinced.
‘But, Aunt Polly, if you LOVED Dr. Chilton—‘
‘WHAT, Pollyanna?’ Aunt Polly’s voice was very sharp
now. Her cheeks were very red, too.
‘I say, if you loved Dr. Chilton, and didn’t love the other
one,’ sighed Pollyanna, ‘seems to me that would make some
difference in the good he would do; and I love Dr. Chilton.’
The nurse entered the room at that moment, and Aunt
Polly rose to her feet abruptly, a look of relief on her face.
‘I am very sorry, Pollyanna,’ she said, a little stiffly; ‘but
I’m afraid you’ll have to let me be the judge, this time. Be-
sides, it’s already arranged. The New York doctor is coming
to-morrow.’
As it happened, however, the New York doctor did not
come ‘to-morrow.’ At the last moment a telegram told of an
unavoidable delay owing to the sudden illness of the spe-

cialist himself. This led Pollyanna into a renewed pleading
for the substitution of Dr. Chilton—‘which would be so easy
now, you know.’
But as before, Aunt Polly shook her head and said ‘no,
dear,’ very decisively, yet with a still more anxious assur-
ance that she would do anything—anything but that—to
please her dear Pollyanna.
As the days of waiting passed, one by one, it did indeed,
seem that Aunt Polly was doing everything (but that) that
she could do to please her niece.
‘I wouldn’t ‘a’ believed it—you couldn’t ‘a’ made me be-
lieve it,’ Nancy said to Old Tom one morning. ‘There don’t
seem ter be a minute in the day that Miss Polly ain’t jest han-
gin’ ‘round waitin’ ter do somethin’ for that blessed lamb if
‘tain’t more than ter let in the cat—an’ her what wouldn’t let
Fluff nor Buff up-stairs for love nor money a week ago; an’
now she lets ‘em tumble all over the bed jest ‘cause it pleases
Miss Pollyanna!
‘An’ when she ain’t doin’ nothin’ else, she’s movin’ them
little glass danglers ‘round ter diff’rent winders in the room
so the sun’ll make the ‘rainbows dance,’ as that blessed
child calls it. She’s sent Timothy down ter Cobb’s green-
house three times for fresh flowers—an’ that besides all the
posies fetched in ter her, too. An’ the other day, if I didn’t
find her sittin’ ‘fore the bed with the nurse actually doin’ her
hair, an’ Miss Pollyanna lookin’ on an’ bossin’ from the bed,
her eyes all shinin’ an’ happy. An’ I declare ter goodness, if
Miss Polly hain’t wore her hair like that every day now—jest
ter please that blessed child!’
196 Pollyanna
Old Tom chuckled.
‘Well, it strikes me Miss Polly herself ain’t lookin’ none
the worse—for wearin’ them ‘ere curls ‘round her forehead,’
he observed dryly.
‘ ‘Course she ain’t,’ retorted Nancy, indignantly. ‘She
looks like FOLKS, now. She’s actually almost—‘
‘Keerful, now, Nancy!’ interrupted the old man, with a
slow grin. ‘You know what you said when I told ye she was
handsome once.’
Nancy shrugged her shoulders.
‘Oh, she ain’t handsome, of course; but I will own up
she don’t look like the same woman, what with the ribbons
an’ lace jiggers Miss Pollyanna makes her wear ‘round her
neck.’
‘I told ye so,’ nodded the man. ‘I told ye she wa’n’t—old.’
Nancy laughed.
‘Well, I’ll own up she HAIN’T got quite so good an imi-
tation of it—as she did have, ‘fore Miss Pollyanna come. Say,
Mr. Tom, who WAS her A lover? I hain’t found that out, yet;
I hain’t, I hain’t!’
‘Hain’t ye?’ asked the old man, with an odd look on his
face. ‘Well, I guess ye won’t then from me.’
‘Oh, Mr. Tom, come on, now,’ wheedled the girl. ‘Ye see,
there ain’t many folks here that I CAN ask.’
‘Maybe not. But there’s one, anyhow, that ain’t answerin’,’
grinned Old Tom. Then, abruptly, the light died from his
eyes. ‘How is she, ter-day—the little gal?’
Nancy shook her head. Her face, too, had sobered.
‘Just the same, Mr. Tom. There ain’t no special diff’rence,

as I can see—or anybody, I guess. She jest lays there an’
sleeps an’ talks some, an’ tries ter smile an’ be ‘glad’ ‘cause
the sun sets or the moon rises, or some other such thing, till
it’s enough ter make yer heart break with achin’.’
‘I know; it’s the ‘game’—bless her sweet heart!’ nodded
Old Tom, blinking a little.
‘She told YOU, then, too, about that ‘ere—game?’
‘Oh, yes. She told me long ago.’ The old man hesitated,
then went on, his lips twitching a little. ‘I was growlin’ one
day ‘cause I was so bent up and crooked; an’ what do ye
s’pose the little thing said?’
‘I couldn’t guess. I wouldn’t think she could find ANY-
THIN’ about THAT ter be glad about!’
‘She did. She said I could be glad, anyhow, that I didn’t
have ter STOOP SO FAR TER DO MY WEEDIN’ ‘cause I
was already bent part way over.’
Nancy gave a wistful laugh.
‘Well, I ain’t surprised, after all. You might know she’d
find somethin’. We’ve been playin’ it—that game—since al-
most the first, ‘cause there wa’n’t no one else she could play
it with—though she did speak of—her aunt.’
‘MISS POLLY!’
Nancy chuckled.
‘I guess you hain’t got such an awful diff’rent opinion o’
the mistress than I have,’ she bridled.
Old Tom stiffened.
‘I was only thinkin’ ‘twould be—some of a surprise—to
her,’ he explained with dignity.
‘Well, yes, I guess ‘twould be—THEN,’ retorted Nancy. ‘I
198 Pollyanna
ain’t sayin’ what ‘twould be NOW. I’d believe anythin’ o’ the
mistress now—even that she’d take ter playin’ it herself!’
‘But hain’t the little gal told her—ever? She’s told ev’ry
one else, I guess. I’m hearin’ of it ev’rywhere, now, since she
was hurted,’ said Tom.
‘Well, she didn’t tell Miss Polly,’ rejoined Nancy. ‘Miss
Pollyanna told me long ago that she couldn’t tell her, ‘cause
her aunt didn’t like ter have her talk about her father; an’
‘twas her father’s game, an’ she’d have ter talk about him if
she did tell it. So she never told her.’
‘Oh, I see, I see.’ The old man nodded his head slowly.
‘They was always bitter against the minister chap—all of ‘em,
‘cause he took Miss Jennie away from ‘em. An’ Miss Polly—
young as she was—couldn’t never forgive him; she was that
fond of Miss Jennie—in them days. I see, I see. ‘Twas a bad
mess,’ he sighed, as he turned away.
‘Yes, ‘twas—all ‘round, all ‘round,’ sighed Nancy in her
turn, as she went back to her kitchen.
For no one were those days of waiting easy. The nurse
tried to look cheerful, but her eyes were troubled. The doc-
tor was openly nervous and impatient. Miss Polly said little;
but even the softening waves of hair about her face, and the
becoming laces at her throat, could not hide the fact that
she was growing thin and pale. As to Pollyanna—Pollyan-
na petted the dog, smoothed the cat’s sleek head, admired
the flowers and ate the fruits and jellies that were sent in
to her; and returned innumerable cheery answers to the
many messages of love and inquiry that were brought to her
bedside. But she, too, grew pale and thin; and the nervous

activity of the poor little hands and arms only emphasized
the pitiful motionlessness of the once active little feet and
legs now lying so woefully quiet under the blankets.
As to the game—Pollyanna told Nancy these days how
glad she was going to be when she could go to school again,
go to see Mrs. Snow, go to call on Mr. Pendleton, and go to
ride with Dr. Chilton nor did she seem to realize that all this
‘gladness’ was in the future, not the present. Nancy, however,
did realize it—and cry about it, when she was alone.
200 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XXVI. A
DOOR AJAR
J ust a week from the time Dr. Mead, the specialist, was
first expected, he came. He was a tall, broad-shouldered
man with kind gray eyes, and a cheerful smile. Pollyanna
liked him at once, and told him so.
‘You look quite a lot like MY doctor, you see,’ she added
engagingly.
‘YOUR doctor?’ Dr. Mead glanced in evident surprise
at Dr. Warren, talking with the nurse a few feet away. Dr.
Warren was a small, brown-eyed man with a pointed brown
beard.
‘Oh, THAT isn’t my doctor,’ smiled Pollyanna, divining
his thought. ‘Dr. Warren is Aunt Polly’s doctor. My doctor
is Dr. Chilton.’
‘Oh-h!’ said Dr. Mead, a little oddly, his eyes resting
on Miss Polly, who, with a vivid blush, had turned hastily
away.
‘Yes.’ Pollyanna hesitated, then continued with her usual
truthfulness. ‘You see, I wanted Dr. Chilton all the time, but
Aunt Polly wanted you. She said you knew more than Dr.
Chilton, anyway about—about broken legs like mine. And
of course if you do, I can be glad for that. Do you?’
A swift something crossed the doctor’s face that Polly-

anna could not quite translate.
‘Only time can tell that, little girl,’ he said gently; then he
turned a grave face toward Dr. Warren, who had just come
to the bedside.
Every one said afterward that it was the cat that did it.
Certainly, if Fluffy had not poked an insistent paw and
nose against Pollyanna’s unlatched door, the door would
not have swung noiselessly open on its hinges until it stood
perhaps a foot ajar; and if the door had not been open, Pol-
lyanna would not have heard her aunt’s words.
In the hall the two doctors, the nurse, and Miss Polly
stood talking. In Pollyanna’s room Fluffy had just jumped
to the bed with a little purring ‘meow’ of joy when through
the open door sounded clearly and sharply Aunt Polly’s ag-
onized exclamation.
‘Not that! Doctor, not that! You don’t mean—the child—
will NEVER WALK again!’
It was all confusion then. First, from the bedroom came
Pollyanna’s terrified ‘Aunt Polly Aunt Polly!’ Then Miss Pol-
ly, seeing the open door and realizing that her words had
been heard, gave a low little moan and—for the first time in
her life—fainted dead away.
The nurse, with a choking ‘She heard!’ stumbled toward
the open door. The two doctors stayed with Miss Polly. Dr.
Mead had to stay—he had caught Miss Polly as she fell. Dr.
Warren stood by, helplessly. It was not until Pollyanna cried
out again sharply and the nurse closed the door, that the
two men, with a despairing glance into each other’s eyes,
awoke to the immediate duty of bringing the woman in Dr.
202 Pollyanna
Mead’s arms back to unhappy consciousness.
In Pollyanna’s room, the nurse had found a purring gray
cat on the bed vainly trying to attract the attention of a
white-faced, wild-eyed little girl.
‘Miss Hunt, please, I want Aunt Polly. I want her right
away, quick, please!’
The nurse closed the door and came forward hurriedly.
Her face was very pale.
‘She—she can’t come just this minute, dear. She will—a
little later. What is it? Can’t I—get it?’
‘But I want to know what she said—just now. Did you
hear her? I want Aunt Polly—she said something. I want her
to tell me ‘tisn’t true—‘tisn’t true!’
The nurse tried to speak, but no words came. Something
in her face sent an added terror to Pollyanna’s eyes.
‘Miss Hunt, you DID hear her! It is true! Oh, it isn’t true!
You don’t mean I can’t ever—walk again?
‘There, there, dear—don’t, don’t!’ choked the nurse. ‘Per-
haps he didn’t know. Perhaps he was mistaken. There’s lots
of things that could happen, you know.’
‘But Aunt Polly said he did know! She said he knew more
than anybody else about—about broken legs like mine!’
‘Yes, yes, I know, dear; but all doctors make mistakes
sometimes. Just—just don’t think any more about it now—
please don’t, dear.’
Pollyanna flung out her arms wildly. ‘But I can’t help
thinking about it,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s all there is now to think
about. Why, Miss Hunt, how am I going to school, or to see

Mr. Pendleton, or Mrs. Snow, or—or anybody?’ She caught
her breath and sobbed wildly for a moment. Suddenly she
stopped and looked up, a new terror in her eyes. ‘Why, Miss
Hunt, if I can’t walk, how am I ever going to be glad for—
ANYTHING?’
Miss Hunt did not know ‘the game;’ but she did know
that her patient must be quieted, and that at once. In spite
of her own perturbation and heartache, her hands had not
been idle, and she stood now at the bedside with the quiet-
ing powder ready.
‘There, there, dear, just take this,’ she soothed; ‘and by
and by we’ll be more rested, and we’ll see what can be done
then. Things aren’t half as bad as they seem, dear, lots of
times, you know.’
Obediently Pollyanna took the medicine, and sipped the
water from the glass in Miss Hunt’s hand.
‘I know; that sounds like things father used to say,’ fal-
tered Pollyanna, blinking off the tears. ‘He said there was
always something about everything that might be worse;
but I reckon he’d never just heard he couldn’t ever walk
again. I don’t see how there CAN be anything about that,
that could be worse—do you?’
Miss Hunt did not reply. She could not trust herself to
speak just then.
204 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XXVII.
TWO VISITS
I t was Nancy who was sent to tell Mr. John Pendleton of Dr.
Mead’s verdict. Miss Polly had remembered her promise
to let him have direct information from the house. To go
herself, or to write a letter, she felt to be almost equally out
of the question. It occurred to her then to send Nancy.
There had been a time when Nancy would have rejoiced
greatly at this extraordinary opportunity to see something
of the House of Mystery and its master. But to-day her heart
was too heavy to, rejoice at anything. She scarcely even
looked about her at all, indeed, during the few minutes, she
waited for Mr. John Pendleton to appear.
‘I’m Nancy, sir,’ she said respectfully, in response to the
surprised questioning of his eyes, when he came into the
room. ‘Miss Harrington sent me to tell you about—Miss
Pollyanna.’
‘Well?’
In spite of the curt terseness of the word, Nancy quite
understood the anxiety that lay behind that short ‘well?’
‘It ain’t well, Mr. Pendleton,’ she choked.
‘You don’t mean—‘ He paused, and she bowed her head
miserably.
‘Yes, sir. He says—she can’t walk again—never.’

For a moment there was absolute silence in the room;
then the man spoke, in a voice shaken with emotion.
‘Poor—little—girl! Poor—little—girl!’
Nancy glanced at him, but dropped her eyes at once. She
had not supposed that sour, cross, stern John Pendleton
could look like that. In a moment he spoke again, still in
the low, unsteady voice.
‘It seems cruel—never to dance in the sunshine again!
My little prism girl!’
There was another silence; then, abruptly, the man
asked:
‘She herself doesn’t know yet—of course—does she?’
‘But she does, sir.’ sobbed Nancy, ‘an’ that’s what makes
it all the harder. She found out—drat that cat! I begs yer
pardon,’ apologized the girl, hurriedly. ‘It’s only that the cat
pushed open the door an’ Miss Pollyanna overheard ‘em
talkin’. She found out—that way.’
‘Poor—little—girl!’ sighed the man again.
‘Yes, sir. You’d say so, sir, if you could see her,’ choked
Nancy. ‘I hain’t seen her but twice since she knew about it,
an’ it done me up both times. Ye see it’s all so fresh an’ new
to her, an’ she keeps thinkin’ all the time of new things she
can’t do—NOW. It worries her, too, ‘cause she can’t seem ter
be glad—maybe you don’t know about her game, though,’
broke off Nancy, apologetically.
‘The ‘glad game’?’ asked the man. ‘Oh, yes; she told me
of that.’
‘Oh, she did! Well, I guess she has told it generally ter
most folks. But ye see, now she—she can’t play it herself,
206 Pollyanna
an’ it worries her. She says she can’t think of a thing—not a
thing about this not walkin’ again, ter be glad about.’
‘Well, why should she?’ retorted the man, almost savage-
ly.
Nancy shifted her feet uneasily.
‘That’s the way I felt, too—till I happened ter think—it
WOULD be easier if she could find somethin’, ye know. So I
tried to—to remind her.’
‘To remind her! Of what?’ John Pendleton’s voice was still
angrily impatient.
‘Of—of how she told others ter play it Mis’ Snow, and the
rest, ye know—and what she said for them ter do. But the
poor little lamb just cries, an’ says it don’t seem the same,
somehow. She says it’s easy ter TELL lifelong invalids how
ter be glad, but ‘tain’t the same thing when you’re the life-
long invalid yerself, an’ have ter try ter do it. She says she’s
told herself over an’ over again how glad she is that other
folks ain’t like her; but that all the time she’s sayin’ it, she
ain’t really THINKIN’ of anythin’ only how she can’t ever
walk again.’
Nancy paused, but the man did not speak. He sat with
his hand over his eyes.
‘Then I tried ter remind her how she used ter say the
game was all the nicer ter play when—when it was hard,’
resumed Nancy, in a dull voice. ‘But she says that, too, is
diff’rent—when it really IS hard. An’ I must be goin’, now,
sir,’ she broke off abruptly.
At the door she hesitated, turned, and asked timidly:
‘I couldn’t be tellin’ Miss Pollyanna that—that you’d seen

Jimmy Bean again, I s’pose, sir, could I?’
‘I don’t see how you could—as I haven’t seen him,’ ob-
served the man a little shortly. ‘Why?’
‘Nothin’, sir, only—well, ye see, that’s one of the things
that she was feelin’ bad about, that she couldn’t take him ter
see you, now. She said she’d taken him once, but she didn’t
think he showed off very well that day, and that she was
afraid you didn’t think he would make a very nice child’s
presence, after all. Maybe you know what she means by
that; but I didn’t, sir.’
‘Yes, I know—what she means.’
‘All right, sir. It was only that she was wantin’ ter take him
again, she said, so’s ter show ye he really was a lovely child’s
presence. And now she—can’t—drat that autymobile! I begs
yer pardon, sir. Good-by!’ And Nancy fled precipitately.
It did not take long for the entire town of Beldingsville
to learn that the great New York doctor had said Pollyan-
na Whittier would never walk again; and certainly never
before had the town been so stirred. Everybody knew by
sight now the piquant little freckled face that had always a
smile of greeting; and almost everybody knew of the ‘game’
that Pollyanna was playing. To think that now never again
would that smiling face be seen on their streets—never
again would that cheery little voice proclaim the gladness
of some everyday experience! It seemed unbelievable, im-
possible, cruel.
In kitchens and sitting rooms, and over back-yard fences
women talked of it, and wept openly. On street corners and
in store lounging-places the men talked, too, and wept—
208 Pollyanna
though not so openly. And neither the talking nor the
weeping grew less when fast on the heels of the news itself,
came Nancy’s pitiful story that Pollyanna, face to face with
what had come to her, was bemoaning most of all the fact
that she could not play the game; that she could not now be
glad over—anything.
It was then that the same thought must have, in some
way, come to Pollyanna’s friends. At all events, almost at
once, the mistress of the Harrington homestead, greatly to
her surprise, began to receive calls: calls from people she
knew, and people she did not know; calls from men, women,
and children—many of whom Miss Polly had not supposed
that her niece knew at all.
Some came in and sat down for a stiff five or ten minutes.
Some stood awkwardly on the porch steps, fumbling with
hats or hand-bags, according to their sex. Some brought a
book, a bunch of flowers, or a dainty to tempt the palate.
Some cried frankly. Some turned their backs and blew their
noses furiously. But all inquired very anxiously for the little
injured girl; and all sent to her some message—and it was
these messages which, after a time, stirred Miss Polly to ac-
tion.
First came Mr. John Pendleton. He came without his
crutches to-day.
‘I don’t need to tell you how shocked I am,’ he began al-
most harshly. ‘But can—nothing be done?’
Miss Polly gave a gesture of despair.
‘Oh, we’re ‘doing,’ of course, all the time. Dr. Mead pre-
scribed certain treatments and medicines that might help,

and Dr. Warren is carrying them out to the letter, of course.
But—Dr. Mead held out almost no hope.’
John Pendleton rose abruptly—though he had but just
come. His face was white, and his mouth was set into stern
lines. Miss Polly, looking at him, knew very well why he felt
that he could not stay longer in her presence. At the door
he turned.
‘I have a message for Pollyanna,’ he said. ‘Will you tell her,
please, that I have seen Jimmy Bean and—that he’s going
to be my boy hereafter. Tell her I thought she would be—
GLAD to know. I shall adopt him, probably.’
For a brief moment Miss Polly lost her usual well-bred
self-control.
‘You will adopt Jimmy Bean!’ she gasped.
The man lifted his chin a little.
‘Yes. I think Pollyanna will understand. You will tell her
I thought she would be—GLAD!’
‘Why, of—of course,’ faltered Miss Polly.
‘Thank you,’ bowed John Pendleton, as he turned to go.
In the middle of the floor Miss Polly stood, silent and
amazed, still looking after the man who had just left her.
Even yet she could scarcely believe what her ears had heard.
John Pendleton ADOPT Jimmy Bean? John Pendleton,
wealthy, independent, morose, reputed to be miserly and
supremely selfish, to adopt a little boy—and such a little
boy?
With a somewhat dazed face Miss Polly went up-stairs to
Pollyanna’s room.
‘Pollyanna, I have a message for you from Mr. John Pend-
210 Pollyanna
leton. He has just been here. He says to tell you he has taken
Jimmy Bean for his little boy. He said he thought you’d be
glad to know it.’
Pollyanna’s wistful little face flamed into sudden joy.
‘Glad? GLAD? Well, I reckon I am glad! Oh, Aunt Polly,
I’ve so wanted to find a place for Jimmy—and that’s such a
lovely place! Besides, I’m so glad for Mr. Pendleton, too. You
see, now he’ll have the child’s presence.’
‘The—what?’
Pollyanna colored painfully. She had forgotten that she
had never told her aunt of Mr. Pendleton’s desire to adopt
her—and certainly she would not wish to tell her now that
she had ever thought for a minute of leaving her—this dear
Aunt Polly!
‘The child’s presence,’ stammered Pollyanna, hastily. ‘Mr.
Pendleton told me once, you see, that only a woman’s hand
and heart or a child’s presence could make a—a home. And
now he’s got it—the child’s presence.’
‘Oh, I—see,’ said Miss Polly very gently; and she did
see—more than Pollyanna realized. She saw something of
the pressure that was probably brought to bear on Polly-
anna herself at the time John Pendleton was asking HER to
be the ‘child’s presence,’ which was to transform his great
pile of gray stone into a home. ‘I see,’ she finished, her eyes
stinging with sudden tears.
Pollyanna, fearful that her aunt might ask further em-
barrassing questions, hastened to lead the conversation
away from the Pendleton house and its master.
‘Dr. Chilton says so, too—that it takes a woman’s hand

and heart, or a child’s presence, to make a home, you know,’
she remarked.
Miss Polly turned with a start.
‘DR. CHILTON! How do you know—that?’
‘He told me so. ‘Twas when he said he lived in just rooms,
you know—not a home.’
Miss Polly did not answer. Her eyes were out the win-
dow.
‘So I asked him why he didn’t get ‘em.—a woman’s hand
and heart, and have a home.’
‘Pollyanna!’ Miss Polly had turned sharply. Her cheeks
showed a sudden color.
‘Well, I did. He looked so—so sorrowful.’
‘What did he—say?’ Miss Polly asked the question as if
in spite of some force within her that was urging her not
to ask it.
‘He didn’t say anything for a minute; then he said very
low that you couldn’t always get ‘em for the asking.’
There was a brief silence. Miss Polly’s eyes had turned
again to the window. Her cheeks were still unnaturally
pink.
Pollyanna sighed.
‘He wants one, anyhow, I know, and I wish he could have
one.’
‘Why, Pollyanna, HOW do you know?’
‘Because, afterwards, on another day, he said something
else. He said that low, too, but I heard him. He said that
he’d give all the world if he did have one woman’s hand and
heart. Why, Aunt Polly, what’s the matter?’ Aunt Polly had
212 Pollyanna
risen hurriedly and gone to the window.
‘Nothing, dear. I was changing the position of this prism,’
said Aunt Polly, whose whole face now was aflame.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE
GAME AND ITS PLAYERS
I t was not long after John Pendleton’s second visit that

Milly Snow called one afternoon. Milly Snow had nev-
er before been to the Harrington homestead. She blushed
and looked very embarrassed when Miss Polly entered the
room.
‘I—I came to inquire for the little girl,’ she stammered.
‘You are very kind. She is about the same. How is your
mother?’ rejoined Miss Polly, wearily.
‘That is what I came to tell you—that is, to ask you to tell
Miss Pollyanna,’ hurried on the girl, breathlessly and inco-
herently. ‘We think it’s—so awful—so perfectly awful that
the little thing can’t ever walk again; and after all she’s done
for us, too—for mother, you know, teaching her to play the
game, and all that. And when we heard how now she couldn’t
play it herself—poor little dear! I’m sure I don’t see how she
CAN, either, in her condition!—but when we remembered
all the things she’d said to us, we thought if she could only
know what she HAD done for us, that it would HELP, you
know, in her own case, about the game, because she could
be glad—that is, a little glad—‘ Milly stopped helplessly, and
seemed to be waiting for Miss Polly to speak.
Miss Polly had sat politely listening, but with a puzzled
214 Pollyanna
questioning in her eyes. Only about half of what had been
said, had she understood. She was thinking now that she
always had known that Milly Snow was ‘queer,’ but she had
not supposed she was crazy. In no other way, however, could
she account for this incoherent, illogical, unmeaning rush
of words. When the pause came she filled it with a quiet:
‘I don’t think I quite understand, Milly. Just what is it
that you want me to tell my niece?’
‘Yes, that’s it; I want you to tell her,’ answered the girl,
feverishly. ‘Make her see what she’s done for us. Of course
she’s SEEN some things, because she’s been there, and she’s
known mother is different; but I want her to know HOW
different she is—and me, too. I’m different. I’ve been trying
to play it—the game—a little.’
Miss Polly frowned. She would have asked what Milly
meant by this ‘game,’ but there was no opportunity. Milly
was rushing on again with nervous volubility.
‘You know nothing was ever right before—for mother.
She was always wanting ‘em different. And, really, I don’t
know as one could blame her much—under the circum-
stances. But now she lets me keep the shades up, and she
takes interest in things—how she looks, and her nightdress,
and all that. And she’s actually begun to knit little things—
reins and baby blankets for fairs and hospitals. And she’s
so interested, and so GLAD to think she can do it!—and
that was all Miss Pollyanna’s doings, you know, ‘cause she
told mother she could be glad she’d got her hands and arms,
anyway; and that made mother wonder right away why she
didn’t DO something with her hands and arms. And so she

began to do something—to knit, you know. And you can’t
think what a different room it is now, what with the red and
blue and yellow worsteds, and the prisms in the window
that SHE gave her—why, it actually makes you feel BET-
TER just to go in there now; and before I used to dread it
awfully, it was so dark and gloomy, and mother was so—so
unhappy, you know.
‘And so we want you to please tell Miss Pollyanna that
we understand it’s all because of her. And please say we’re
so glad we know her, that we thought, maybe if she knew it,
it would make her a little glad that she knew us. And—and
that’s all,’ sighed Milly, rising hurriedly to her feet. ‘You’ll
tell her?’
‘Why, of course,’ murmured Miss Polly, wondering just
how much of this remarkable discourse she could remem-
ber to tell.
These visits of John Pendleton and Milly Snow were only
the first of many; and always there were the messages—the
messages which were in some ways so curious that they
caused Miss Polly more and more to puzzle over them.
One day there was the little Widow Benton. Miss Pol-
ly knew her well, though they had never called upon each
other. By reputation she knew her as the saddest little wom-
an in town—one who was always in black. To-day, however,
Mrs. Benton wore a knot of pale blue at the throat, though
there were tears in her eyes. She spoke of her grief and hor-
ror at the accident; then she asked diffidently if she might
see Pollyanna.
Miss Polly shook her head.
216 Pollyanna
‘I am sorry, but she sees no one yet. A little later—per-
haps.’
Mrs. Benton wiped her eyes, rose, and turned to go. But
after she had almost reached the hall door she came back
hurriedly.
‘Miss Harrington, perhaps, you’d give her—a message,’
she stammered.
‘Certainly, Mrs. Benton; I shall be very glad to.’
Still the little woman hesitated; then she spoke.
‘Will you tell her, please, that—that I’ve put on THIS,’ she
said, just touching the blue bow at her throat. Then, at Miss
Polly’s ill-concealed look of surprise, she added: ‘The little
girl has been trying for so long to make me wear—some
color, that I thought she’d be—glad to know I’d begun. She
said that Freddy would be so glad to see it, if I would. You
know Freddy’s ALL I have now. The others have all—‘ Mrs.
Benton shook her head and turned away. ‘If you’ll just tell
Pollyanna—SHE’LL understand.’ And the door closed af-
ter her.
A little later, that same day, there was the other wid-
ow—at least, she wore widow’s garments. Miss Polly did not
know her at all. She wondered vaguely how Pollyanna could
have known her. The lady gave her name as ‘Mrs. Tarbell.’
‘I’m a stranger to you, of course,’ she began at once. ‘But
I’m not a stranger to your little niece, Pollyanna. I’ve been
at the hotel all summer, and every day I’ve had to take long
walks for my health. It was on these walks that I’ve met your
niece—she’s such a dear little girl! I wish I could make you
understand what she’s been to me. I was very sad when I

came up here; and her bright face and cheery ways remind-
ed me of—my own little girl that I lost years ago. I was so
shocked to hear of the accident; and then when I learned
that the poor child would never walk again, and that she
was so unhappy because she couldn’t be glad any longer—
the dear child!—I just had to come to you.’
‘You are very kind,’ murmured Miss Polly.
‘But it is you who are to be kind,’ demurred the other. ‘I—
I want you to give her a message from me. Will you?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Will you just tell her, then, that Mrs. Tarbell is glad now.
Yes, I know it sounds odd, and you don’t understand. But—
if you’ll pardon me I’d rather not explain.’ Sad lines came
to the lady’s mouth, and the smile left her eyes. ‘Your niece
will know just what I mean; and I felt that I must tell—her.
Thank you; and pardon me, please, for any seeming rude-
ness in my call,’ she begged, as she took her leave.
Thoroughly mystified now, Miss Polly hurried up-stairs
to Pollyanna’s room.
‘Pollyanna, do you know a Mrs. Tarbell?
‘Oh, yes. I love Mrs. Tarbell. She’s sick, and awfully sad;
and she’s at the hotel, and takes long walks. We go together.
I mean—we used to.’ Pollyanna’s voice broke, and two big
tears rolled down her cheeks.
Miss Polly cleared her throat hurriedly.
‘We’ll, she’s just been here, dear. She left a message for
you—but she wouldn’t tell me what it meant. She said to tell
you that Mrs. Tarbell is glad now.’
Pollyanna clapped her hands softly.
218 Pollyanna
‘Did she say that—really? Oh, I’m so glad!
‘But, Pollyanna, what did she mean?’
‘Why, it’s the game, and—‘ Pollyanna stopped short, her
fingers to her lips.
‘What game?’
‘N-nothing much, Aunt Polly; that is—I can’t tell it un-
less I tell other things that—that I’m not to speak of.’
It was on Miss Polly’s tongue to question her niece fur-
ther; but the obvious distress on the little girl’s face stayed
the words before they were uttered.
Not long after Mrs. Tarbell’s visit, the climax came. It
came in the shape of a call from a certain young woman
with unnaturally pink cheeks and abnormally yellow hair;
a young woman who wore high heels and cheap jewelry; a
young woman whom Miss Polly knew very well by reputa-
tion—but whom she was angrily amazed to meet beneath
the roof of the Harrington homestead.
Miss Polly did not offer her hand. She drew back, indeed,
as she entered the room.
The woman rose at once. Her eyes were very red, as if she
had been crying. Half defiantly she asked if she might, for a
moment, see the little girl, Pollyanna.
Miss Polly said no. She began to say it very sternly; but
something in the woman’s pleading eyes made her add the
civil explanation that no one was allowed yet to see Polly-
anna.
The woman hesitated; then a little brusquely she spoke.
Her chin was still at a slightly defiant tilt.
‘My name is Mrs. Payson—Mrs. Tom Payson. I presume

you’ve heard of me—most of the good people in the town
have—and maybe some of the things you’ve heard ain’t true.
But never mind that. It’s about the little girl I came. I heard
about the accident, and—and it broke me all up. Last week I
heard how she couldn’t ever walk again, and—and I wished
I could give up my two uselessly well legs for hers. She’d do
more good trotting around on ‘em one hour than I could in
a hundred years. But never mind that. Legs ain’t always giv-
en to the one who can make the best use of ‘em, I notice.’
She paused, and cleared her throat; but when she re-
sumed her voice was still husky.
‘Maybe you don’t know it, but I’ve seen a good deal of
that little girl of yours. We live on the Pendleton Hill road,
and she used to go by often—only she didn’t always GO BY.
She came in and played with the kids and talked to me—
and my man, when he was home. She seemed to like it, and
to like us. She didn’t know, I suspect, that her kind of folks
don’t generally call on my kind. Maybe if they DID call
more, Miss Harrington, there wouldn’t be so many—of my
kind,’ she added, with sudden bitterness.
‘Be that as it may, she came; and she didn’t do herself no
harm, and she did do us good—a lot o’ good. How much she
won’t know—nor can’t know, I hope; ‘cause if she did, she’d
know other things—that I don’t want her to know.
‘But it’s just this. It’s been hard times with us this year, in
more ways than one. We’ve been blue and discouraged—my
man and me, and ready for—‘most anything. We was reck-
oning on getting a divorce about now, and letting the kids
well, we didn’t know what we would do with the kids, Then
220 Pollyanna
came the accident, and what we heard about the little girl’s
never walking again. And we got to thinking how she used
to come and sit on our doorstep and train with the kids,
and laugh, and—and just be glad. She was always being glad
about something; and then, one day, she told us why, and
about the game, you know; and tried to coax us to play it.
‘Well, we’ve heard now that she’s fretting her poor lit-
tle life out of her, because she can’t play it no more—that
there’s nothing to be glad about. And that’s what I came
to tell her to-day—that maybe she can be a little glad for
us, ‘cause we’ve decided to stick to each other, and play the
game ourselves. I knew she would be glad, because she used
to feel kind of bad—at things we said, sometimes. Just how
the game is going to help us, I can’t say that I exactly see, yet;
but maybe ‘twill. Anyhow, we’re going to try—‘cause she
wanted us to. Will you tell her?’
‘Yes, I will tell her,’ promised Miss Polly, a little faintly.
Then, with sudden impulse, she stepped forward and held
out her hand. ‘And thank you for coming, Mrs. Payson,’ she
said simply.
The defiant chin fell. The lips above it trembled visibly.
With an incoherently mumbled something, Mrs. Payson
blindly clutched at the outstretched hand, turned, and fled.
The door had scarcely closed behind her before Miss Pol-
ly was confronting Nancy in the kitchen.
‘Nancy!’
Miss Polly spoke sharply. The series of puzzling, dis-
concerting visits of the last few days, culminating as they
had in the extraordinary experience of the afternoon, had

strained her nerves to the snapping point. Not since Miss
Pollyanna’s accident had Nancy heard her mistress speak
so sternly.
‘Nancy, WILL you tell me what this absurd ‘game’ is
that the whole town seems to be babbling about? And what,
please, has my niece to do with it? WHY does everybody,
from Milly Snow to Mrs. Tom Payson, send word to her that
they’re ‘playing it’? As near as I can judge, half the town
are putting on blue ribbons, or stopping family quarrels, or
learning to like something they never liked before, and all
because of Pollyanna. I tried to ask the child herself about
it, but I can’t seem to make much headway, and of course I
don’t like to worry her—now. But from something I heard
her say to you last night, I should judge you were one of
them, too. Now WILL you tell me what it all means?’
To Miss Polly’s surprise and dismay, Nancy burst into
tears.
‘It means that ever since last June that blessed child has
jest been makin’ the whole town glad, an’ now they’re turnin’
‘round an’ tryin’ ter make her a little glad, too.’
‘Glad of what?’
‘Just glad! That’s the game.’
Miss Polly actually stamped her foot.
‘There you go like all the rest, Nancy. What game?’
Nancy lifted her chin. She faced her mistress and looked
her squarely in the eye.
‘I’ll tell ye, ma’am. It’s a game Miss Pollyanna’s father
learned her ter play. She got a pair of crutches once in a mis-
sionary barrel when she was wantin’ a doll; an’ she cried, of
222 Pollyanna
course, like any child would. It seems ‘twas then her father
told her that there wasn’t ever anythin’ but what there was
somethin’ about it that you could be glad about; an’ that she
could be glad about them crutches.’
‘Glad for—CRUTCHES!’ Miss Polly choked back a
sob—she was thinking of the helpless little legs on the bed
up-stairs.
‘Yes’m. That’s what I said, an’ Miss Pollyanna said that’s
what she said, too. But he told her she COULD be glad—
‘cause she DIDN’T NEED ‘EM.’
‘Oh-h!’ cried Miss Polly.
‘And after that she said he made a regular game of it—fin-
din’ somethin’ in everythin’ ter be glad about. An’ she said
ye could do it, too, and that ye didn’t seem ter mind not
havin’ the doll so much, ‘cause ye was so glad ye DIDN’T
need the crutches. An’ they called it the ‘jest bein’ glad’
game. That’s the game, ma’am. She’s played it ever since.’
‘But, how—how—‘ Miss Polly came to a helpless pause.
‘An’ you’d be surprised ter find how cute it works, ma’am,
too,’ maintained Nancy, with almost the eagerness of Pol-
lyanna herself. ‘I wish I could tell ye what a lot she’s done
for mother an’ the folks out home. She’s been ter see ‘em, ye
know, twice, with me. She’s made me glad, too, on such a lot
o’ things—little things, an’ big things; an’ it’s made ‘em so
much easier. For instance, I don’t mind ‘Nancy’ for a name
half as much since she told me I could be glad ‘twa’n’t ‘Hep-
hzibah.’ An’ there’s Monday mornin’s, too, that I used ter
hate so. She’s actually made me glad for Monday mornin’s.’
‘Glad—for Monday mornings!’

Nancy laughed.
‘I know it does sound nutty, ma’am. But let me tell ye.
That blessed lamb found out I hated Monday mornin’s
somethin’ awful; an’ what does she up an’ tell me one day
but this: ‘Well, anyhow, Nancy, I should think you could
be gladder on Monday mornin’ than on any other day in
the week, because ‘twould be a whole WEEK before you’d
have another one!’ An’ I’m blest if I hain’t thought of it ev’ry
Monday mornin’ since—an’ it HAS helped, ma’am. It made
me laugh, anyhow, ev’ry time I thought of it; an’ laughin’
helps, ye know—it does, it does!’
‘But why hasn’t—she told me—the game?’ faltered Miss
Polly. ‘Why has she made such a mystery of it, when I asked
her?’
Nancy hesitated.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, you told her not ter speak
of—her father; so she couldn’t tell ye. ‘Twas her father’s
game, ye see.’
Miss Polly bit her lip.
‘She wanted ter tell ye, first off,’ continued Nancy, a little
unsteadily. ‘She wanted somebody ter play it with, ye know.
That’s why I begun it, so she could have some one.’
‘And—and—these others?’ Miss Polly’s voice shook now.
‘Oh, ev’rybody, ‘most, knows it now, I guess. Any-
how, I should think they did from the way I’m hearin’ of
it ev’rywhere I go. Of course she told a lot, and they told
the rest. Them things go, ye know, when they gets started.
An’ she was always so smilin’ an’ pleasant ter ev’ry one, an’
so—so jest glad herself all the time, that they couldn’t help
224 Pollyanna
knowin’ it, anyhow. Now, since she’s hurt, ev’rybody feels so
bad—specially when they heard how bad SHE feels ‘cause
she can’t find anythin’ ter be glad about. An’ so they’ve been
comin’ ev’ry day ter tell her how glad she’s made THEM, ho-
pin’ that’ll help some. Ye see, she’s always wanted ev’rybody
ter play the game with her.’
‘Well, I know somebody who’ll play it—now,’ choked
Miss Polly, as she turned and sped through the kitchen
doorway.
Behind her, Nancy stood staring amazedly.
‘Well, I’ll believe anythin’—anythin’ now,’ she muttered
to herself. ‘Ye can’t stump me with anythin’ I wouldn’t be-
lieve, now—o’ Miss Polly!’
A little later, in Pollyanna’s room, the nurse left Miss Pol-
ly and Pollyanna alone together.
‘And you’ve had still another caller to-day, my dear,’ an-
nounced Miss Polly, in a voice she vainly tried to steady. ‘Do
you remember Mrs. Payson?’
‘Mrs. Payson? Why, I reckon I do! She lives on the way
to Mr. Pendleton’s, and she’s got the prettiest little girl baby
three years old, and a boy ‘most five. She’s awfully nice, and
so’s her husband—only they don’t seem to know how nice
each other is. Sometimes they fight—I mean, they don’t
quite agree. They’re poor, too, they say, and of course they
don’t ever have barrels, ‘cause he isn’t a missionary minister,
you know, like—well, he isn’t.’
A faint color stole into Pollyanna’s cheeks which was du-
plicated suddenly in those of her aunt.
‘But she wears real pretty clothes, sometimes, in spite

of their being so poor,’ resumed Pollyanna, in some haste.
‘And she’s got perfectly beautiful rings with diamonds and
rubies and emeralds in them; but she says she’s got one ring
too many, and that she’s going to throw it away and get a
divorce instead. What is a divorce, Aunt Polly? I’m afraid
it isn’t very nice, because she didn’t look happy when she
talked about it. And she said if she did get it, they wouldn’t
live there any more, and that Mr. Payson would go ‘way
off, and maybe the children, too. But I should think they’d
rather keep the ring, even if they did have so many more.
Shouldn’t you? Aunt Polly, what is a divorce?’
‘But they aren’t going ‘way off, dear,’ evaded Aunt Polly,
hurriedly. ‘They’re going to stay right there together.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad! Then they’ll be there when I go up to
see—O dear!’ broke off the little girl, miserably. ‘Aunt Polly,
why CAN’T I remember that my legs don’t go any more, and
that I won’t ever, ever go up to see Mr. Pendleton again?’
‘There, there, don’t,’ choked her aunt. ‘Perhaps you’ll
drive up sometime. But listen! I haven’t told you, yet, all that
Mrs. Payson said. She wanted me to tell you that they—they
were going to stay together and to play the game, just as you
wanted them to.’
Pollyanna smiled through tear-wet eyes.
‘Did they? Did they, really? Oh, I am glad of that!’
‘Yes, she said she hoped you’d be. That’s why she told you,
to make you—GLAD, Pollyanna.’
Pollyanna looked up quickly.
‘Why, Aunt Polly, you—you spoke just as if you knew—
DO you know about the game, Aunt Polly?’
226 Pollyanna
‘Yes, dear.’ Miss Polly sternly forced her voice to be cheer-
fully matter-of-fact. ‘Nancy told me. I think it’s a beautiful
game. I’m going to play it now—with you.’
‘Oh, Aunt Polly—YOU? I’m so glad! You see, I’ve really
wanted you most of anybody, all the time.’
Aunt Polly caught her breath a little sharply. It was even
harder this time to keep her voice steady; but she did it.
‘Yes, dear; and there are all those others, too. Why, Pol-
lyanna, I think all the town is playing that game now with
you—even to the minister! I haven’t had a chance to tell you,
yet, but this morning I met Mr. Ford when I was down to
the village, and he told me to say to you that just as soon as
you could see him, he was coming to tell you that he hadn’t
stopped being glad over those eight hundred rejoicing texts
that you told him about. So you see, dear, it’s just you that
have done it. The whole town is playing the game, and the
whole town is wonderfully happier—and all because of one
little girl who taught the people a new game, and how to
play it.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ she cried. Then, suddenly, a wonderful
light illumined her face. ‘Why, Aunt Polly, there IS some-
thing I can be glad about, after all. I can be glad I’ve HAD
my legs, anyway—else I couldn’t have done—that!’

CHAPTER XXIX. THROUGH
AN OPEN WINDOW
O ne by one the short winter days came and went—but

they were not short to Pollyanna. They were long, and
sometimes full of pain. Very resolutely, these days, howev-
er, Pollyanna was turning a cheerful face toward whatever
came. Was she not specially bound to play the game, now
that Aunt Polly was playing it, too? And Aunt Polly found
so many things to be glad about! It was Aunt Polly, too, who
discovered the story one day about the two poor little waifs
in a snow-storm who found a blown-down door to crawl
under, and who wondered what poor folks did that didn’t
have any door! And it was Aunt Polly who brought home
the other story that she had heard about the poor old lady
who had only two teeth, but who was so glad that those two
teeth ‘hit’!
Pollyanna now, like Mrs. Snow, was knitting wonder-
ful things out of bright colored worsteds that trailed their
cheery lengths across the white spread, and made Pollyan-
na—again like Mrs. Snow—so glad she had her hands and
arms, anyway.
Pollyanna saw people now, occasionally, and always
there were the loving messages from those she could not
see; and always they brought her something new to think
228 Pollyanna
about—and Pollyanna needed new things to think about.
Once she had seen John Pendleton, and twice she had
seen Jimmy Bean. John Pendleton had told her what a fine
boy Jimmy was getting to be, and how well he was doing.
Jimmy had told her what a first-rate home he had, and what
bang-up ‘folks’ Mr. Pendleton made; and both had said that
it was all owing to her.
‘Which makes me all the gladder, you know, that I HAVE
had my legs,’ Pollyanna confided to her aunt afterwards.
The winter passed, and spring came. The anxious watch-
ers over Pollyanna’s condition could see little change
wrought by the prescribed treatment. There seemed every
reason to believe, indeed, that Dr. Mead’s worst fears would
be realized—that Pollyanna would never walk again.
Beldingsville, of course, kept itself informed concern-
ing Pollyanna; and of Beldingsville, one man in particular
fumed and fretted himself into a fever of anxiety over the
daily bulletins which he managed in some way to procure
from the bed of suffering. As the days passed, however, and
the news came to be no better, but rather worse, something
besides anxiety began to show in the man’s face: despair, and
a very dogged determination, each fighting for the mastery.
In the end, the dogged determination won; and it was then
that Mr. John Pendleton, somewhat to his surprise, received
one Saturday morning a call from Dr. Thomas Chilton.
‘Pendleton,’ began the doctor, abruptly, ‘I’ve come to you
because you, better than any one else in town, know some-
thing of my relations with Miss Polly Harrington.’
John Pendleton was conscious that he must have started

visibly—he did know something of the affair between Pol-
ly Harrington and Thomas Chilton, but the matter had not
been mentioned between them for fifteen years, or more.
‘Yes,’ he said, trying to make his voice sound concerned
enough for sympathy, and not eager enough for curiosity.
In a moment he saw that he need not have worried, how-
ever: the doctor was quite too intent on his errand to notice
how that errand was received.
‘Pendleton, I want to see that child. I want to make an ex-
amination. I MUST make an examination.’
‘Well—can’t you?’
‘CAN’T I! Pendleton, you know very well I haven’t been
inside that door for more than fifteen years. You don’t
know—but I will tell you—that the mistress of that house
told me that the NEXT time she ASKED me to enter it, I
might take it that she was begging my pardon, and that all
would be as before—which meant that she’d marry me. Per-
haps you see her summoning me now—but I don’t!’
‘But couldn’t you go—without a summons?’
The doctor frowned.
‘Well, hardly. I have some pride, you know.’
‘But if you’re so anxious—couldn’t you swallow your
pride and forget the quarrel—‘
‘Forget the quarrel!’ interrupted the doctor, savage-
ly. ‘I’m not talking of that kind of pride. So far as THAT
is concerned, I’d go from here there on my knees—or on
my head—if that would do any good. It’s PROFESSIONAL
pride I’m talking about. It’s a case of sickness, and I’m a
doctor. I can’t butt in and say, ‘Here, take me!’can I?’
230 Pollyanna
‘Chilton, what was the quarrel?’ demanded Pendleton.
The doctor made an impatient gesture, and got to his
feet.
‘What was it? What’s any lovers’ quarrel after it’s over?’
he snarled, pacing the room angrily. ‘A silly wrangle over
the size of the moon or the depth of a river, maybe—it
might as well be, so far as its having any real significance
compared to the years of misery that follow them! Never
mind the quarrel! So far as I am concerned, I am willing to
say there was no quarrel. Pendleton, I must see that child. It
may mean life or death. It will mean—I honestly believe—
nine chances out of ten that Pollyanna Whittier will walk
again!’
The words were spoken clearly, impressively; and they
were spoken just as the one who uttered them had almost
reached the open window near John Pendleton’s chair. Thus
it happened that very distinctly they reached the ears of a
small boy kneeling beneath the window on the ground out-
side.
Jimmy Bean, at his Saturday morning task of pulling up
the first little green weeds of the flowerbeds, sat up with
ears and eyes wide open.
‘Walk! Pollyanna!’ John Pendleton was saying. ‘What do
you mean?’
I mean that from what I can hear and learn—a mile
from her bedside—that her case is very much like one that
a college friend of mine has just helped. For years he’s been
making this sort of thing a special study. I’ve kept in touch
with him, and studied, too, in a way. And from what I hear—

but I want to SEE the girl!’
John Pendleton came erect in his chair.
‘You must see her, man! Couldn’t you—say, through Dr.
Warren?’
The other shook his head.
‘I’m afraid not. Warren has been very decent, though. He
told me himself that he suggested consultation with me at
the first, but—Miss Harrington said no so decisively that
he didn’t dare venture it again, even though he knew of my
desire to see the child. Lately, some of his best patients have
come over to me—so of course that ties my hands still more
effectually. But, Pendleton, I’ve got to see that child! Think
of what it may mean to her—if I do!’
‘Yes, and think of what it will mean—if you don’t!’ re-
torted Pendleton.
‘But how can I—without a direct request from her aunt?—
which I’ll never get!’
‘She must be made to ask you!’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No, I guess you don’t—nor anybody else. She’s too proud
and too angry to ask me—after what she said years ago it
would mean if she did ask me. But when I think of that
child, doomed to lifelong misery, and when I think that
maybe in my hands lies a chance of escape, but for that con-
founded nonsense we call pride and professional etiquette,
I—‘ He did not finish his sentence, but with his hands thrust
deep into his pockets, he turned and began to tramp up and
down the room again, angrily.
232 Pollyanna
‘But if she could be made to see—to understand,’ urged
John Pendleton.
‘Yes; and who’s going to do it?’ demanded the doctor,
with a savage turn.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ groaned the other, miser-
ably.
Outside the window Jimmy Bean stirred suddenly. Up
to now he had scarcely breathed, so intently had he listened
to every word.
‘Well, by Jinks, I know!’ he whispered, exultingly. ‘I’M
a-goin’ ter do it!’ And forthwith he rose to his feet, crept
stealthily around the corner of the house, and ran with all
his might down Pendleton Hill.

CHAPTER XXX. JIMMY
TAKES THE HELM
‘I t’s Jimmy Bean. He wants ter see ye, ma’am,’ announced

Nancy in the doorway.
‘Me?’ rejoined Miss Polly, plainly surprised. ‘Are you
sure he did not mean Miss Pollyanna? He may see her a few
minutes to-day, if he likes.’
‘Yes’m. I told him. But he said it was you he wanted.’
‘Very well, I’ll come down.’ And Miss Polly arose from
her chair a little wearily.
In the sitting room she found waiting for her a round-
eyed, flushed-faced boy, who began to speak at once.
‘Ma’am, I s’pose it’s dreadful—what I’m doin’, an’ what
I’m sayin’; but I can’t help it. It’s for Pollyanna, and I’d walk
over hot coals for her, or face you, or—or anythin’ like that,
any time. An’ I think you would, too, if you thought there
was a chance for her ter walk again. An’ so that’s why I come
ter tell ye that as long as it’s only pride an’ et—et-somethin’
that’s keepin’ Pollyanna from walkin’, why I knew you
WOULD ask Dr. Chilton here if you understood—‘
‘Wh-at?’ interrupted Miss Polly, the look of stupefaction
on her face changing to one of angry indignation.
Jimmy sighed despairingly.
‘There, I didn’t mean ter make ye mad. That’s why I be-
234 Pollyanna
gun by tellin’ ye about her walkin’ again. I thought you’d
listen ter that.’
‘Jimmy, what are you talking about?’
Jimmy sighed again.
‘That’s what I’m tryin’ ter tell ye.’
‘Well, then tell me. But begin at the beginning, and be
sure I understand each thing as you go. Don’t plunge into
the middle of it as you did before—and mix everything all
up!’
Jimmy wet his lips determinedly.
‘Well, ter begin with, Dr. Chilton come ter see Mr. Pend-
leton, an’ they talked in the library. Do you understand
that?’
‘Yes, Jimmy.’ Miss Polly’s voice was rather faint.
‘Well, the window was open, and I was weedin’ the flow-
er-bed under it; an’ I heard ‘em talk.’
‘Oh, Jimmy! LISTENING?’
‘ ‘Twa’n’t about me, an’ ‘twa’n’t sneak listenin’,’ bridled
Jimmy. ‘And I’m glad I listened. You will be when I tell ye.
Why, it may make Pollyanna—walk!’
‘Jimmy, what do you mean?’ Miss Polly was leaning for-
ward eagerly.
‘There, I told ye so,’ nodded Jimmy, contentedly. ‘Well,
Dr. Chilton knows some doctor somewhere that can cure
Pollyanna, he thinks—make her walk, ye know; but he can’t
tell sure till he SEES her. And he wants ter see her somethin’
awful, but he told Mr. Pendleton that you wouldn’t let him.’
Miss Polly’s face turned very red.
‘But, Jimmy, I—I can’t—I couldn’t! That is, I didn’t know!’

Miss Polly was twisting her fingers together helplessly.
‘Yes, an’ that’s what I come ter tell ye, so you WOULD
know,’ asserted Jimmy, eagerly. ‘They said that for some
reason—I didn’t rightly catch what—you wouldn’t let Dr.
Chilton come, an’ you told Dr. Warren so; an’ Dr. Chilton
couldn’t come himself, without you asked him, on account
of pride an’ professional et—et—well, et-somethin anyway.
An’ they was wishin’ somebody could make you under-
stand, only they didn’t know who could; an’ I was outside
the winder, an’ I says ter myself right away, ‘By Jinks, I’ll do
it!’ An’ I come—an’ have I made ye understand?’
‘Yes; but, Jimmy, about that doctor,’ implored Miss Polly,
feverishly. ‘Who was he? What did he do? Are they SURE
he could make Pollyanna walk?’
‘I don’t know who he was. They didn’t say. Dr. Chilton
knows him, an’ he’s just cured somebody just like her, Dr.
Chilton thinks. Anyhow, they didn’t seem ter be doin’ no
worryin’ about HIM. ‘Twas YOU they was worryin’ about,
‘cause you wouldn’t let Dr. Chilton see her. An’ say—you
will let him come. won’t you?—now you understand?’
Miss Polly turned her head from side to side. Her breath
was coming in little uneven, rapid gasps. Jimmy, watching
her with anxious eyes, thought she was going to cry. But she
did not cry. After a minute she said brokenly:
‘Yes—I’ll let—Dr. Chilton—see her. Now run home, Jim-
my—quick! I’ve got to speak to Dr. Warren. He’s up-stairs
now. I saw him drive in a few minutes ago.’
A little later Dr. Warren was surprised to meet an agi-
tated, flushed-faced Miss Polly in the hall. He was still more
236 Pollyanna
surprised to hear the lady say, a little breathlessly:
‘Dr. Warren, you asked me once to allow Dr. Chilton to
be called in consultation, and—I refused. Since then I have
reconsidered. I very much desire that you SHOULD call in
Dr. Chilton. Will you not ask him at once—please? Thank
you.’

CHAPTER XXXI. A
NEW UNCLE
T he next time Dr. Warren entered the chamber where

Pollyanna lay watching the dancing shimmer of color
on the ceiling, a tall, broad-shouldered man followed close
behind him.
‘Dr. Chilton!—oh, Dr. Chilton, how glad I am to see
YOU!’ cried Pollyanna. And at the joyous rapture of the
voice, more than one pair of eyes in the room brimmed
hot with sudden tears. ‘But, of course, if Aunt Polly doesn’t
want—‘
‘It is all right, my dear; don’t worry,’ soothed Miss Polly,
agitatedly, hurrying forward. ‘I have told Dr. Chilton that—
that I want him to look you over—with Dr. Warren, this
morning.’
‘Oh, then you asked him to come,’ murmured Pollyanna,
contentedly.
‘Yes, dear, I asked him. That is—‘ But it was too late. The
adoring happiness that had leaped to Dr. Chilton’s eyes was
unmistakable and Miss Polly had seen it. With very pink
cheeks she turned and left the room hurriedly.
Over in the window the nurse and Dr. Warren were
talking earnestly. Dr. Chilton held out both his hands to
Pollyanna.
238 Pollyanna
‘Little girl, I’m thinking that one of the very gladdest jobs
you ever did has been done to-day,’ he said in a voice shaken
with emotion.
At twilight a wonderfully tremulous, wonderfully differ-
ent Aunt Polly crept to Pollyanna’s bedside. The nurse was
at supper. They had the room to themselves.
‘Pollyanna, dear, I’m going to tell you—the very first one
of all. Some day I’m going to give Dr. Chilton to you for
your—uncle. And it’s you that have done it all. Oh, Polly-
anna, I’m so—happy! And so—glad!—darling!’
Pollyanna began to clap her hands; but even as she
brought her small palms together the first time, she stopped,
and held them suspended.
‘Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, WERE you the woman’s hand
and heart he wanted so long ago? You were—I know you
were! And that’s what he meant by saying I’d done the
gladdest job of all—to-day. I’m so glad! Why, Aunt Polly, I
don’t know but I’m so glad that I don’t mind—even my legs,
now!’
Aunt Polly swallowed a sob.
‘Perhaps, some day, dear—‘ But Aunt Polly did not finish.
Aunt Polly did not dare to tell, yet, the great hope that Dr.
Chilton had put into her heart. But she did say this—and
surely this was quite wonderful enough—to Pollyanna’s
mind:
‘Pollyanna, next week you’re going to take a journey. On
a nice comfortable little bed you’re going to be carried in
cars and carriages to a great doctor who has a big house
many miles from here made on purpose for just such people

as you are. He’s a dear friend of Dr. Chilton’s, and we’re go-
ing to see what he can do for you!’
240 Pollyanna
CHAPTER XXXII.
WHICH IS A LETTER
FROM POLLYANNA
‘D ear Aunt Polly and Uncle Tom:—Oh, I can—I can—I

CAN walk! I did to-day all the way from my bed to
the window! It was six steps. My, how good it was to be on
legs again!
‘All the doctors stood around and smiled, and all the
nurses stood beside of them and cried. A lady in the next
ward who walked last week first, peeked into the door, and
another one who hopes she can walk next month, was in-
vited in to the party, and she laid on my nurse’s bed and
clapped her hands. Even Black Tilly who washes the floor,
looked through the piazza window and called me ‘Honey,
child’ when she wasn’t crying too much to call me any-
thing.
‘I don’t see why they cried. I wanted to sing and shout
and yell! Oh—oh—oh! just think, I can walk—walk—
WALK! Now I don’t mind being here almost ten months,
and I didn’t miss the wedding, anyhow. Wasn’t that just like
you, Aunt Polly, to come on here and get married right be-
side my bed, so I could see you. You always do think of the
gladdest things!

‘Pretty soon, they say, I shall go home. I wish I could walk
all the way there. I do. I don’t think I shall ever want to ride
anywhere any more. It will be so good just to walk. Oh, I’m
so glad! I’m glad for everything. Why, I’m glad now I lost
my legs for a while, for you never, never know how perfectly
lovely legs are till you haven’t got them—that go, I mean.
I’m going to walk eight steps to-morrow.
‘With heaps of love to everybody,
‘POLLYANNA.’
242 Pollyanna

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Pollyanna

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Pollyanna

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M iss Polly Harrington entered her kitchen a little hur-

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I n the little attic room Nancy swept and scrubbed vigor-

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I n due time came the telegram announcing that Pollyanna

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M iss Polly Harrington did not rise to meet her niece.

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‘F or the land’s sake, Miss Pollyanna, what a scare you did

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I t was nearly seven o’clock when Pollyanna awoke that

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A t half-past one o’clock Timothy drove Miss Polly and

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I t was not long before life at the Harrington homestead

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T he next time Pollyanna went to see Mrs. Snow, she found

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A ugust came. August brought several surprises and

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D inner, which came at noon in the Harrington home-

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