POLLYANNA & Its Sequel, Pollyanna Grows Up. Элинор Портер

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      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, convinced 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 allowed 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, rapturously; “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 fortunate 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 directions 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 either 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 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 before 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 out 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 bureau, 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 silver. 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.

      “Why, Nancy, Nancy—what is it?” she cried; then, fearfully: “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 СКАЧАТЬ