"It's the little girl from Miss Polly's, mother," announced
Milly, in a tired manner; then Pollyanna found herself alone with
the invalid.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" asked a fretful voice from the bed. "I
remember you. ANYbody'd remember you, I guess, if they saw you
once. I wish you had come yesterday. I WANTED you yesterday."

"Did you? Well, I'm glad 'tisn't any farther away from yesterday
than to-day is, then," laughed Pollyanna, advancing cheerily into
the room, and setting her basket carefully down on a chair. "My!
but aren't you dark here, though? I can't see you a bit," she
cried, unhesitatingly crossing to the window and pulling up the
shade. "I want to see if you've fixed your hair like I did--oh,
you haven't! But, never mind; I'm glad you haven't, after all,
'cause maybe you'll let me do it--later. But now I want you to
see what I've brought you."

The woman stirred restlessly.

"Just as if how it looks would make any difference in how it
tastes," she scoffed--but she turned her eyes toward the basket.
"Well, what is it?"

"Guess! What do you want?" Pollyanna had skipped back to the
basket. Her face was alight. The sick woman frowned.

"Why, I don't WANT anything, as I know of," she sighed. "After
all, they all taste alike!"