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Updated: June 29, 2025
She rather enjoyed studying out Pollyanna's "posers," too, as she called some of the little girl's questions. "Oh, I know," she chuckled. "It's just the opposite from what you told Mis' Snow." "Opposite?" repeated Pollyanna, obviously puzzled. "Yes. You told her she could be glad because other folks wasn't like her all sick, you know." "Yes," nodded Pollyanna.
To her pride this knowledge was not pleasing. To her heart it was torture since the boy had twice said that he would not come. For a time, during those last few days of Pollyanna's stay, the struggle was a bitter one, though pride always kept the ascendancy. Then, on what Mrs.
To his amazement, however, there was neither grief nor disappointment in Pollyanna's eyes. There was only surprised joy. "Oh, oh!" she cried, clapping her hands. "I'm so glad! That is," she corrected, coloring distressfully, "I don't mean that I'm not sorry for the heathen, only just now I can't help being glad that you don't want the little India boys, because all the rest have wanted them.
While if I don't get it I won't have had all these weeks of unhappiness beforehand, anyway; and I can be glad for one of the smaller ones, then." That she might not get any prize was not in Pollyanna's calculations at all. The story, so beautifully typed by Milly Snow, looked almost as good as printed already to Pollyanna.
The three were off at last, with Pollyanna's trunk in behind, and Pollyanna herself snugly ensconced between Nancy and Timothy. During the whole process of getting started, the little girl had kept up an uninterrupted stream of comments and questions, until the somewhat dazed Nancy found herself quite out of breath trying to keep up with her. "There! Isn't this lovely? Is it far?
"Well, the doctor can be glad because he isn't like other folks the sick ones, I mean, what he doctors," finished Nancy in triumph. It was Pollyanna's turn to frown. "Why, y-yes," she admitted. "Of course that IS one way, but it isn't the way I said; and someway, I don't seem to quite like the sound of it.
Carew, still with unsmiling lips and frowning brow led the way up the broad stone steps. "Come, Pollyanna," was all she said, crisply. It was five days later that Della Wetherby received the letter from her sister, and very eagerly she tore it open. It was the first that had come since Pollyanna's arrival in Boston. "My dear Sister," Mrs. Carew had written.
"Pollyanna, what does all this mean?" demanded Aunt Polly, hurriedly removing her hat, and trying to smooth back her disordered hair. "No, no please, Aunt Polly!" Pollyanna's jubilant voice turned to one of distressed appeal. "Don't smooth 'em out! It's those that I'm talking about those darling little black curls. Oh, Aunt Polly, they're so pretty!" "Nonsense!
The immediate cause thereof was Pollyanna's glowing conclusion to a story about one of her Ladies' Aiders. "She was playing the game, Mrs. Carew. But maybe you don't know what the game is. I'll tell you. It's a lovely game." But Mrs. Carew held up her hand. "Never mind, Pollyanna," she demurred. "I know all about the game. My sister told me, and and I must say that I I should not care for it."
As February, March, and April passed, however, and May came, bringing with it the near approach of the date set for Pollyanna's home-going, Mrs. Carew did suddenly awake to the knowledge of what that home-going was to mean to her. She was amazed and appalled. Up to now she had, in belief, looked forward with pleasure to the departure of Pollyanna.
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