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Page 28
"Me!--pretty!" scoffed the woman, bitterly.
"Why, yes. Didn't you know it?" cried Pollyanna.
"Well, no, I didn't," retorted Mrs. Snow, dryly. Mrs. Snow had
lived forty years, and for fifteen of those years she had been
too busy wishing things were different to find much time to enjoy
things as they were.
"Oh, but your eyes are so big and dark, and your hair's all dark,
too, and curly," cooed Pollyanna. "I love black curls. (That's
one of the things I'm going to have when I get to Heaven.) And
you've got two little red spots in your cheeks. Why, Mrs. Snow,
you ARE pretty! I should think you'd know it when you looked at
yourself in the glass."
"The glass!" snapped the sick woman, falling back on her pillow.
"Yes, well, I hain't done much prinkin' before the mirror these
days--and you wouldn't, if you was flat on your back as I am!"
"Why, no, of course not," agreed Pollyanna, sympathetically. "But
wait--just let me show you," she exclaimed, skipping over to the
bureau and picking up a small hand-glass.
On the way back to the bed she stopped, eyeing the sick woman
with a critical gaze.
"I reckon maybe, if you don't mind, I'd like to fix your hair
just a little before I let you see it," she proposed. "May I fix
your hair, please?"
"Why, I--suppose so, if you want to," permitted Mrs. Snow,
grudgingly; "but 'twon't stay, you know."
"Oh, thank you. I love to fix people's hair," exulted Pollyanna,
carefully laying down the hand-glass and reaching for a comb. "I
sha'n't do much to-day, of course--I'm in such a hurry for you to
see how pretty you are; but some day I'm going to take it all
down and have a perfectly lovely time with it," she cried,
touching with soft fingers the waving hair above the sick woman's
forehead.
For five minutes Pollyanna worked swiftly, deftly, combing a
refractory curl into fluffiness, perking up a drooping ruffle at
the neck, or shaking a pillow into plumpness so that the head
might have a better pose. Meanwhile the sick woman, frowning
prodigiously, and openly scoffing at the whole procedure, was, in
spite of herself, beginning to tingle with a feeling perilously
near to excitement.
"There!" panted Pollyanna, hastily plucking a pink from a vase
near by and tucking it into the dark hair where it would give the
best effect. "Now I reckon we're ready to be looked at!" And she
held out the mirror in triumph.
"Humph!" grunted the sick woman, eyeing her reflection severely.
"I like red pinks better than pink ones; but then, it'll fade,
anyhow, before night, so what's the difference!"
"But I should think you'd be glad they did fade," laughed
Pollyanna, "'cause then you can have the fun of getting some
more. I just love your hair fluffed out like that," she finished
with a satisfied gaze. "Don't you?"
"Hm-m; maybe. Still--'twon't last, with me tossing back and forth
on the pillow as I do."
"Of course not--and I'm glad, too," nodded Pollyanna, cheerfully,
"because then I can fix it again. Anyhow, I should think you'd be
glad it's black--black shows up so much nicer on a pillow than
yellow hair like mine does."
"Maybe; but I never did set much store by black hair--shows gray
too soon," retorted Mrs. Snow. She spoke fretfully, but she still
held the mirror before her face.
"Oh, I love black hair! I should be so glad if I only had it,"
sighed Pollyanna.
Mrs. Snow dropped the mirror and turned irritably.
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