POLLYANNA & Its Sequel, Pollyanna Grows Up - Элинор Портер

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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!”

      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 maybe 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?” ejaculated Mrs. Snow, staring after her visitor. By and by she turned her head and picked up the mirror, eyeing her reflection critically.

      “That little thing HAS got a knack with hair and no mistake,” 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—though it had been carefully 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 conciliation, 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 nightdress—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 nightdresses that Milly for months had been vainly urging her mother to wear.

      Chapter IX.

       Which Tells of the Man

       Table of Contents

      It rained the next time Pollyanna saw the Man. She greeted 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 necessary 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: Pollyanna, as a special treat, was on a morning errand to-day.

      “How do you do?” she chirped. “I’m so glad it isn’t yesterday, 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.

      Pollyanna laughed gleefully.

      “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 gazing straight into hers, with a quizzical directness that made 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, brightly. “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 frequently 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 Pollyanna, 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

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