Page 66 - pollyanna

skipping over to the bureau and picking up a small hand-
glass.
On the way back to the bed she stopped, eyeing the sick
woman with a critical gaze.
‘I reckon maybe, if you don’t mind, I’d like to fix your
hair just a little before I let you see it,’ she proposed. ‘May I
fix your hair, please?’
‘Why, I—suppose so, if you want to,’ permitted Mrs.
Snow, grudgingly; ‘but ‘twon’t stay, you know.’
‘Oh, thank you. I love to fix people’s hair,’ exulted Pol-
lyanna, carefully laying down the hand-glass and reaching
for a comb. ‘I sha’n’t do much to-day, of course—I’m in such
a hurry for you to see how pretty you are; but some day I’m
going to take it all down and have a perfectly lovely time
with it, she cried, touching with soft fingers the waving hair
above the sick woman’s forehead.
For five minutes Pollyanna worked swiftly, deftly, comb-
ing a refractory curl into fluffiness, perking up a drooping
ruffle at the neck, or shaking a pillow into plumpness so
that the head might have a better pose. Meanwhile the sick
woman, frowning prodigiously, and openly scoffing at the
whole procedure, was, in spite of herself, beginning to tin-
gle with a feeling perilously near to excitement.
‘There!’ panted Pollyanna, hastily plucking a pink from
a vase near by and tucking it into the dark hair where it
would give the best effect. ‘Now I reckon we’re ready to be
looked at!’ And she held out the mirror in triumph.
‘Humph!’ grunted the sick woman, eyeing her reflection
severely. ‘I like red pinks better than pink ones; but then,