Pollyanna Grows Up, Eleanor H. Porter [best short novels of all time txt] 📗

but you did something nice Christmas, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. I stayed in bed all day with my feet done up in rags and read four newspapers and one magazine. Then at night I hobbled out to a restaurant where I had to blow in thirty-five cents for chicken pie instead of a quarter.”

“But what ailed your feet?”

“Blistered. Standin’ on ’em⁠—Christmas rush.”

“Oh!” shuddered Pollyanna, sympathetically. “And you didn’t have any tree, or party, or anything?” she cried, distressed and shocked.

“Well, hardly!”

“O dear! How I wish you could have seen mine!” sighed the little girl. “It was just lovely, and⁠—But, oh, say!” she exclaimed joyously. “You can see it, after all. It isn’t gone yet. Now, can’t you come out tonight, or tomorrow night, and⁠—”

“Pollyanna!” interrupted Mrs. Carew in her chilliest accents. “What in the world does this mean? Where have you been? I have looked everywhere for you. I even went ’way back to the suit department.”

Pollyanna turned with a happy little cry.

“Oh, Mrs. Carew, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she rejoiced. “This is⁠—well, I don’t know her name yet, but I know her, so it’s all right. I met her in the Public Garden ever so long ago. And she’s lonesome, and doesn’t know anybody. And her father was a minister like mine, only he’s alive. And she didn’t have any Christmas tree only blistered feet and chicken pie; and I want her to see mine, you know⁠—the tree, I mean,” plunged on Pollyanna, breathlessly. “I’ve asked her to come out tonight, or tomorrow night. And you’ll let me have it all lighted up again, won’t you?”

“Well, really, Pollyanna,” began Mrs. Carew, in cold disapproval. But the girl behind the counter interrupted with a voice quite as cold, and even more disapproving.

“Don’t worry, madam. I’ve no notion of goin’.”

“Oh, but please,” begged Pollyanna. “You don’t know how I want you, and⁠—”

“I notice the lady ain’t doin’ any askin’,” interrupted the salesgirl, a little maliciously.

Mrs. Carew flushed an angry red, and turned as if to go; but Pollyanna caught her arm and held it, talking meanwhile almost frenziedly to the girl behind the counter, who happened, at the moment, to be free from customers.

“Oh, but she will, she will,” Pollyanna was saying. “She wants you to come⁠—I know she does. Why, you don’t know how good she is, and how much money she gives to⁠—to charitable ’sociations and everything.”

“Pollyanna!” remonstrated Mrs. Carew, sharply. Once more she would have gone, but this time she was held spellbound by the ringing scorn in the low, tense voice of the salesgirl.

“Oh, yes, I know! There’s lots of ’em that’ll give to rescue work. There’s always plenty of helpin’ hands stretched out to them that has gone wrong. And that’s all right. I ain’t findin’ no fault with that. Only sometimes I wonder there don’t some of ’em think of helpin’ the girls before they go wrong. Why don’t they give good girls pretty homes with books and pictures and soft carpets and music, and somebody ’round ’em to care? Maybe then there wouldn’t be so many⁠—Good heavens, what am I sayin’?” she broke off, under her breath. Then, with the old weariness, she turned to a young woman who had stopped before her and picked up a blue bow.

“That’s fifty cents, madam,” Mrs. Carew heard, as she hurried Pollyanna away.

XIII A Waiting and a Winning

It was a delightful plan. Pollyanna had it entirely formulated in about five minutes; then she told Mrs. Carew. Mrs. Carew did not think it was a delightful plan, and she said so very distinctly.

“Oh, but I’m sure they’ll think it is,” argued Pollyanna, in reply to Mrs. Carew’s objections. “And just think how easy we can do it! The tree is just as it was⁠—except for the presents, and we can get more of those. It won’t be so very long till just New Year’s Eve; and only think how glad she’ll be to come! Wouldn’t you be, if you hadn’t had anything for Christmas only blistered feet and chicken pie?”

“Dear, dear, what an impossible child you are!” frowned Mrs. Carew. “Even yet it doesn’t seem to occur to you that we don’t know this young person’s name.”

“So we don’t! And isn’t it funny, when I feel that I know her so well?” smiled Pollyanna. “You see, we had such a good talk in the Garden that day, and she told me all about how lonesome she was, and that she thought the lonesomest place in the world was in a crowd in a big city, because folks didn’t think nor notice. Oh, there was one that noticed; but he noticed too much, she said, and he hadn’t ought to notice her any⁠—which is kind of funny, isn’t it, when you come to think of it. But anyhow, he came for her there in the Garden to go somewhere with him, and she wouldn’t go, and he was a real handsome gentleman, too⁠—until he began to look so cross, just at the last. Folks aren’t so pretty when they’re cross, are they? Now there was a lady today looking at bows, and she said⁠—well, lots of things that weren’t nice, you know. And she didn’t look pretty, either, after⁠—after she began to talk. But you will let me have the tree New Year’s Eve, won’t you, Mrs. Carew?⁠—and invite this girl who sells bows, and Jamie? He’s better, you know, now, and he could come. Of course Jerry would have to wheel him⁠—but then, we’d want Jerry, anyway.”

“Oh, of course, Jerry!” exclaimed Mrs. Carew in ironic scorn. “But why stop with Jerry? I’m sure Jerry has hosts of friends who would love to come. And⁠—”

“Oh, Mrs. Carew, may I?” broke in Pollyanna, in uncontrollable delight. “Oh, how good, good, good you are! I’ve so wanted⁠—” But Mrs. Carew fairly gasped aloud in surprise and dismay.

“No, no, Pollyanna, I⁠—” she began, protestingly. But Pollyanna, entirely mistaking the meaning of her interruption, plunged in again in stout championship.

“Indeed you are good⁠—just the bestest ever; and I shan’t let you