Pollyanna | Page 4

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."
"Nice? Well, that isn't exactly the word I should use," rejoined 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 faltered.
"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 sister 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 Harrington, 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
notified what day and train to expect Pollyanna on. Pollyanna
"Hoping to hear favorably from you soon, I remain, "Respectfully
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!--disagreeable 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 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 preferred these--quite naturally, perhaps; so she had
married the minister, and had gone south with him as a home
missionary'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 missionary'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, dated 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