MISS POLLY
Miss Polly Harrington entered her kitchen a little hurriedly this
June morning. Miss Polly did not usually make hurried movements;
she specially prided herself on her repose of manner. But to-day
she was hurrying--actually hurrying.
Nancy, washing dishes at the sink, looked up in surprise. Nancy
had been working in Miss Polly's kitchen only two months, but
already she knew that her mistress did not usually hurry.
"Nancy!"
"Yes, ma'am." Nancy answered cheerfully, but she still continued
wiping the pitcher in her hand.
"Nancy,"--Miss Polly's voice was very stern now--"when I'm
talking to you, I wish you to stop your work and listen to what I
have to say."
Nancy flushed miserably. She set the pitcher down at once, with
the cloth still about it, thereby nearly tipping it over--which
did not add to her composure.
"Yes, ma'am; I will, ma'am," she stammered, righting the pitcher,
and turning hastily. "I was only keepin' on with my work 'cause
you specially told me this mornin' ter hurry with my dishes, ye
know."
Her mistress frowned.
"That will do, Nancy. I did not ask for explanations. I asked for
your attention."
"Yes, ma'am." Nancy stifled a sigh. She was wondering if ever in
any way she could please this woman. Nancy had never "worked out"
before; but a sick mother suddenly widowed and left with three
younger children besides Nancy herself, had forced the girl into
doing something toward their support, and she had been so pleased
when she found a place in the kitchen of the great house on the
hill--Nancy had come from "The Corners," six miles away, and she
knew Miss Polly Harrington only as the mistress of the old
Harrington homestead, and one of the wealthiest residents of the
town. That was two months before. She knew Miss Polly now as a
stern, severe-faced woman who frowned if a knife clattered to the
floor, or if a door banged--but who never thought to smile even
when knives and doors were still.
"When you've finished your morning work, Nancy," Miss Polly was
saying now, "you may clear the little room at the head of the
stairs in the attic, and make up the cot bed. Sweep the room and
clean it, of course, after you clear out the trunks and boxes."
"Yes, ma'am. And where shall I put the things, please, that I
take out?"
"In the front attic." Miss Polly hesitated, then went on: "I
suppose I may as well tell you now, Nancy. My niece, Miss
Pollyanna Whittier, is coming to live with me. She is eleven
years old, and will sleep in that room."
"A little girl--coming here, Miss Harrington? Oh, won't that be
nice!" cried Nancy, thinking of the sunshine her own little
sisters made in the home at "The Corners."
"Nice? Well, that isn't exactly the word I should use," rejoined
Miss Polly, stiffly. "However, I intend to make the best of it,
of course. I am a good woman, I hope; and I know my duty."
Nancy colored hotly.
"Of course, ma'am; it was only that I thought a little girl here
might--might brighten things up for you," she faltered.
"Thank you," rejoined the lady, dryly. "I can't say, however,
that I see any immediate need for that."
"But, of course, you--you'd want her, your sister's child,"
ventured Nancy, vaguely feeling that somehow she must prepare a
welcome for this lonely little stranger.
Miss Polly lifted her chin haughtily.
"Well, really, Nancy, just because I happened to have a sister
who was silly enough to marry and bring unnecessary children into
a world that was already quite full enough, I can't see how I
should particularly WANT to have the care of them myself.
However, as I said before, I hope I know my duty. See that you
clean the corners, Nancy," she finished sharply, as she left the
room.
"Yes, ma'am," sighed Nancy, picking up the half-dried
pitcher--now so cold it must be rinsed again.
In her own room, Miss Polly took out once more the letter which
she had received two days before from the far-away Western town,
and which had been so unpleasant a surprise to her. The letter
was addressed to Miss Polly Harrington, Beldingsville, Vermont;
and it read as follows:
"Dear Madam:--I regret to inform you that the Rev. John Whittier
died two weeks ago, leaving one child, a girl eleven years old.
He left practically nothing else save a few books; for, as you
doubtless know, he was the pastor of this small mission church,
and had a very meagre salary.
"I believe he was your deceased sister's husband, but he gave me
to understand the families were not on the best of terms. He
thought, however, that for your sister's sake you might wish to
take the child and bring her up among her own people in the East.
Hence I am writing to you.
"The little girl will be all ready to start by the time you get
this letter; and if you can take her, we would appreciate it very
much if you would write that she might come at once, as there is
a man and his wife here who are going East very soon, and they
would take her with them to Boston, and put her on the
Beldingsville train. Of course you would be notified what day and
train to expect Pollyanna on. Pollyanna
"Hoping to hear favorably from you soon, I remain,
"Respectfully yours,
"Jeremiah O. White."
With a frown Miss Polly folded the letter and tucked it into its
envelope. She had answered it the day before, and she had said
she would take the child, of course. She HOPED she knew her duty
well enough for that!--disagreeable as the task would be.
As she sat now, with the letter in her hands, her thoughts went
back to her sister, Jennie, who had been this child's mother, and
to the time when Jennie, as a girl of twenty, had insisted upon
marrying the young minister, in spite of her family's
remonstrances. There had been a man of wealth who had wanted
her--and the family had much preferred him to the minister; but
Jennie had not. The man of wealth had more years, as well as more
money, to his credit, while the minister had only a young head
full of youth's ideals and enthusiasm, and a heart full of love.
Jennie had preferred these--quite naturally, perhaps; so she had
married the minister, and had gone south with him as a home
missionary's wife.
The break had come then. Miss Polly remembered it well, though
she had been but a girl of fifteen, the youngest, at the time.
The family had had little more to do with the missionary's wife.
To be sure, Jennie herself had written, for a time, and had named
her last baby "Pollyanna" for her two sisters, Polly and
Anna--the other babies had all died. This had been the last time
that Jennie had written; and in a few years there had come the
news of her death, told in a short, but heart-broken little note
from the minister himself, dated at a little town in the West.
Meanwhile, time had not stood still for the occupants of the
great house on the hill. Miss Polly, looking out at the
far-reaching valley below, thought of the changes those
twenty-five years had brought to her.
She was forty now, and quite alone in the world. Father, mother,
sisters--all were dead. For years, now, she had been sole
mistress of the house and of the thousands left her by her
father. There were people who had openly pitied her lonely life,
and who had urged her to have some friend or companion to live
with her; but she had not welcomed either their sympathy or their
advice. She was not lonely, she said. She liked being by herself.
She preferred quiet. But now--
Miss Polly rose with frowning face and closely-shut lips. She was
glad, of course, that she was a good woman, and that she not only
knew her duty, but had sufficient strength of character to
perform it. But--POLLYANNA!--what a ridiculous name!