Page 46 - pollyanna

At her aunt’s look of shocked anger, Pollyanna corrected
herself at once.
‘Why, no, of course you didn’t, Aunt Polly!’ she hurried
on, with a hot blush. ‘I forgot; rich folks never have to have
them. But you see sometimes I kind of forget that you are
rich—up here in this room, you know.’
Miss Polly’s lips parted indignantly, but no words came.
Pollyanna, plainly unaware that she had said anything in
the least unpleasant, was hurrying on.
‘Well, as I was going to say, you can’t tell a thing about
missionary barrels—except that you won’t find in ‘em what
you think you’re going to—even when you think you won’t.
It was the barrels every time, too, that were hardest to play
the game on, for father and—‘
Just in time Pollyanna remembered that she was not to
talk of her father to her aunt. She dived into her closet then,
hurriedly, and brought out all the poor little dresses in both
her arms.
‘They aren’t nice, at all,’ she choked, ‘and they’d been
black if it hadn’t been for the red carpet for the church; but
they’re all I’ve got.’
With the tips of her fingers Miss Polly turned over the
conglomerate garments, so obviously made for anybody but
Pollyanna. Next she bestowed frowning attention on the
patched undergarments in the bureau drawers.
‘I’ve got the best ones on,’ confessed Pollyanna, anxious-
ly. ‘The Ladies’ Aid bought me one set straight through all
whole. Mrs. Jones—she’s the president—told ‘em I should
have that if they had to clatter down bare aisles themselves