confident. "It'll be just lovely for you to play--it'll be so
hard. And there's so much more fun when it is hard! You see, it's
like this." And she began to tell of the missionary barrel, the
crutches, and the doll that did not come.

The story was just finished when Milly appeared at the door.

"Your aunt is wanting you, Miss Pollyanna," she said with dreary
listlessness. "She telephoned down to the Harlows' across the
way. She says you're to hurry--that you've got some practising to
make up before dark."

Pollyanna rose reluctantly.

"All right," she sighed. "I'll hurry." Suddenly she laughed. "I
suppose I ought to be glad I've got legs to hurry with, hadn't I,
Mrs. Snow?"

There was no answer. Mrs. Snow's eyes were closed. But Milly,
whose eyes were wide open with surprise, saw that there were
tears on the wasted cheeks.

"Good-by," flung Pollyanna over her shoulder, as she reached the
door. "I'm awfully sorry about the hair--I wanted 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: