“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[44] 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,[45] 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[46] 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![47]” 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.”