Chapter VII. Pollyanna and Punishments

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.

Old Tom told Pollyanna wonderful things of her mother and she felt 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 dear brother and sisters. She promised, too, that some time, 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, why?”

“Because it isn’t pretty like the others.”

“But I love ‘Nancy,’ just because it’s you,” declared Pollyanna. “Well, anyhow,” she chuckled, “you can be glad your name 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 it.”

Nancy smiled.

“Say, Miss Pollyanna, were you playing that game about my being glad I’m not ‘Hephzibah’?”

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.”

“Well, m-maybe,” granted Nancy, with open doubt.

At half past eight Pollyanna went up to bed. It was very hot in her room and she could not sleep. It seemed to her that it must have been hours before she finally slipped out of bed and opened her door.

Out in the main attic all was velvet blackness except where the moon flung a path of silver near the east window. She saw something else: she saw, only a little way below the window, the wide, flat roof of Miss Polly’s sun parlor. If only, now, she were out there!

Suddenly Pollyanna remembered that she had seen near this attic window a row of long white bags hanging from nails. She selected a nice fat soft bag for a bed; another bag for a pillow, and a thin bag which seemed almost empty for a covering. Then she stuffed her burden through the window to the roof below, then let herself down after it.

How deliciously cool it was! The 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. Finally, with a sigh of content, she settled herself to sleep on the bag.

Downstairs in 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. And he can get right into the house through the east window in the attic!”

Some time later, Pollyanna was startled by a lantern flash. 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 looking at her in surprise.

“Pollyanna, what does this mean?” cried Aunt Polly then.

“Why, Mr. Tom – Aunt Polly! Don’t look so scared!”

Timothy disappeared suddenly down the ladder. Old Tom handed his lantern to Miss Polly, and followed his son. Miss Polly said sternly:

“Pollyanna, hand those things to me at once and come in here!” she ejaculated a little later, as, with Pollyanna by her side, and the lantern in her hand, she turned back into the attic.

At the top of the stairs Miss Polly said:

“For the rest of the night, Pollyanna, you are to sleep in my bed with me. I consider it my duty to keep you where I know where you are.”

“With you? – in your bed?” Pollyanna cried rapturously. “Oh, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, how perfectly lovely of you! And when I’ve so wanted to sleep with someone sometime – someone that belonged to me, you know.”

There was no reply. 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

It was not long before life at the Harrington homestead settled into something like order. Pollyanna sewed, played the piano, read aloud, and studied cooking in the kitchen. But she had more time, also, to “just live,” as she expressed it, for almost all afternoon from two until six o’clock she could do everything she liked except the certain things already prohibited by Aunt Polly.

There were no children in the neighborhood of the Harrington homestead for Pollyanna to play with. This, however, 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.”

Almost every afternoon Pollyanna begged for “an errand to run,” so that she could 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 always 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 hat. His face was clean shaven and rather pale, and his hair, showing below his hat, was gray. He walked erect, and rather rapidly, and he was always alone, and Pollyanna felt 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 stopped uncertainly.

“Did you speak – to me?” he asked in a sharp voice.

“Yes, sir, 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.

“It isn’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.

“See here, child, who are you, and why are you speaking to me every day?”

“I’m Pollyanna Whittier, and I thought you looked lonesome. 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 disappointed.

“Maybe he didn’t understand – but that was only half an introduction. I don’t know HIS name, yet.” she murmured.

Pollyanna was carrying calf’s-foot jelly to Mrs. Snow today. Miss Polly Harrington always sent something to Mrs. Snow once a week. She said it was her duty, 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 through Nancy. Today Pollyanna had begged the privilege, and Nancy had promptly given it to her in accordance with Miss Polly’s orders.

“I’m glad that I won’t go to her,” Nancy declared to Pollyanna.

“But, why, Nancy?”

Nancy shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, it’s just that nothing whatever has happened, has happened right in Mis’ Snow’s eyes. If you bring her jelly you’ll certainly hear she wanted chicken – but if you DID bring her chicken, she says she wanted lamb broth!”

“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 people.”

Pollyanna was thinking of Nancy’s remarks today as she turned in at the gate of the shabby little cottage.

A pale, 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.”

In the dark and gloomy sick-room, Polyanna saw a woman half-sitting up in the bed.

“How do you do, Mrs. Snow? Aunt Polly says she hopes you are comfortable today, and she sent you some calf’s-foot jelly.”

“Dear me! Jelly? Of course I’m very much obliged, but I hoped it would be lamb broth today.”

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 that Nancy said it was chicken you wanted when we brought jelly, and lamb broth when we brought chicken – but maybe it was the other way, and Nancy forgot.”

“Well, Miss Impertinence, who are you?” she demanded.

Pollyanna laughed.

“Oh, THAT isn’t my name. I’m Pollyanna Whittier, Miss Polly Harrington’s niece, and I live with her now. That’s why I’m here with the jelly this morning.”

“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.

“Here! Can you go to that window and pull up the curtain?” she asked. “I want to know what you look like!”

“O dear! then you’ll see my freckles, won’t you?” she sighed, as she went to the window; “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.

“Why, yes. Didn’t you know it?” cried Pollyanna.

“Well, no, I didn’t,” retorted Mrs. Snow.

“Oh, but your eyes are so big and dark, and your hair’s all dark, too, and curly,” said Pollyanna. “I love black curls. Mrs. Snow, you ARE pretty! I should think you’d know it when you looked at yourself in the glass.”

“Wait – just let me show you,” she exclaimed, picking up a small mirror.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to fix your hair just a little before I let you see it,” she proposed.

“Why, I – suppose so, if you want to,” permitted Mrs. Snow.

For five minutes Pollyanna worked swiftly.

“There!” panted Pollyanna, hastily plucking a pink from a vase and tucking it into the dark hair. “Now I reckon we’re ready to be looked at!” And she held out the mirror in triumph.

“Humph!” grunted the sick woman, looking at her reflection severely. “I like red pinks better than pink ones; but then, it’ll fade before night.”

“I just love your hair fluffed out like that,” she finished. “Don’t you?”

“Hm-m; maybe. But it won’t last.”

“Of course not – and I’m glad, too,” nodded Pollyanna, cheerfully, “because then I can fix it again. Oh, I love black hair!”

“Well, you wouldn’t be glad for black hair nor anything else – if you had to lie here all day as I do!”

“Anyway, you must be glad about things.”

“Be glad about things – when you’re sick in bed all your days?!”

“That’s really hard really. But now I must go. I’ll think about it all the way home. Goodbye!”

“What does she mean by that?” Mrs. Snow thought. She turned her head and picked up the mirror.

“That little thing HAS got a knack with hair and no mistake,” she said.

When a little later, Milly, Mrs. Snow’s daughter, came in, she said,

“I should think SOMEBODY might give me a new nightdress – instead of lamb broth, for a change!”