like best, church, or Sunday school?"

"Well, really, I--" began Mrs. Carew, who seldom went to church and
never went to Sunday school.

"'Tis hard to tell, isn't it?" interposed Pollyanna, with luminous but
serious eyes. "But you see _I_ like church best, on account of father.
You know he was a minister, and of course he's really up in Heaven
with mother and the rest of us, but I try to imagine him down here,
lots of times; and it's easiest in church, when the minister is
talking. I shut my eyes and imagine it's father up there; and it helps
lots. I'm so glad we can imagine things, aren't you?"

"I'm not so sure of that, Pollyanna."

"Oh, but just think how much nicer our IMAGINED things are than our
really truly ones--that is, of course, yours aren't, because your REAL
ones are so nice." Mrs. Carew angrily started to speak, but Pollyanna
was hurrying on. "And of course MY real ones are ever so much nicer
than they used to be. But all that time I was hurt, when my legs
didn't go, I just had to keep imagining all the time, just as hard as
I could. And of course now there are lots of times when I do it--like
about father, and all that. And so to-day I'm just going to imagine
it's father up there in the pulpit. What time do we go?"

"GO?"

"To church, I mean."

"But, Pollyanna, I don't--that is, I'd rather not--" Mrs. Carew