Page 80 - pollyanna

‘Good-by,’ flung Pollyanna over her shoulder, as she
reached the door. ‘I’m awfully sorry about the hair—I want-
ed to do it. But maybe I can next time!’
One by one the July days passed. To Pollyanna, they were
happy days, indeed. She often told her aunt, joyously, how
very happy they were. Whereupon her aunt would usually
reply, wearily:
‘Very well, Pollyanna. I am gratified, of course, that they
are happy; but I trust that they are profitable, as well—oth-
erwise I should have failed signally in my duty.’
Generally Pollyanna would answer this with a hug and
a kiss—a proceeding that was still always most disconcert-
ing to Miss Polly; but one day she spoke. It was during the
sewing hour.
‘Do you mean that it wouldn’t be enough then, Aunt Pol-
ly, that they should be just happy days?’ she asked wistfully.
‘That is what I mean, Pollyanna.’
‘They must be pro-fi-ta-ble as well?
‘Certainly.’
‘What is being pro-fi-ta-ble?
‘Why, it—it’s just being profitable—having profit, some-
thing to show for it, Pollyanna. What an extraordinary
child you are!’
‘Then just being glad isn’t pro-fi-ta-ble?’ questioned Pol-
lyanna, a little anxiously.
‘Certainly not.’
‘O dear! Then you wouldn’t like it, of course. I’m afraid,
now, you won’t ever play the game, Aunt Polly.’
‘Game? What game?’