Miss Polly frowned, hesitated, then crossed the room majestically and opened the door; but Pollyanna was already out of sight, clattering up the attic stairs.

Half an hour later when Miss Polly, her face expressing stern duty in every line, climbed those stairs and entered Pollyanna’s room, she was greeted with a burst of eager enthusiasm.

“Oh, Aunt Polly, I never saw anything so perfectly lovely and interesting in my life.  I’m so glad you gave me that book to read!  Why, I didn’t suppose flies could carry such a lot of things on their feet, and—­”

“That will do,” observed Aunt Polly, with dignity.  “Pollyanna, you may bring out your clothes now, and I will look them over.  What are not suitable for you I shall give to the Sullivans, of course.”

With visible reluctance Pollyanna laid down the pamphlet and turned toward the closet.

“I’m afraid you’ll think they’re worse than the Ladies’ Aid did—­and they said they were shameful,” she sighed.  “But there were mostly things for boys and older folks in the last two or three barrels; and—­did you ever have a missionary barrel, Aunt Polly?”

At her aunt’s look of shocked anger, Pollyanna corrected herself at once.

“Why, no, of course you didn’t, Aunt Polly!” she hurried on, with a hot blush.  “I forgot; rich folks never have to have them.  But you see sometimes I kind of forget that you are rich—­up here in this room, you know.”

Miss Polly’s lips parted indignantly, but no words came.  Pollyanna, plainly unaware that she had said anything in the least unpleasant, was hurrying on.

“Well, as I was going to say, you can’t tell a thing about missionary barrels—­except that you won’t find in ’em what you think you’re going to—­even when you think you won’t.  It was the barrels every time, too, that were hardest to play the game on, for father and—­”

Just in time Pollyanna remembered that she was not to talk of her father to her aunt.  She dived into her closet then, hurriedly, and brought out all the poor little dresses in both her arms.

“They aren’t nice, at all,” she choked, “and they’d been black if it hadn’t been for the red carpet for the church; but they’re all I’ve got.”

With the tips of her fingers Miss Polly turned over the conglomerate garments, so obviously made for anybody but Pollyanna.  Next she bestowed frowning attention on the patched undergarments in the bureau drawers.

“I’ve got the best ones on,” confessed Pollyanna, anxiously.  “The Ladies’ Aid bought me one set straight through all whole.  Mrs. Jones—­she’s the president—­told ’em I should have that if they had to clatter down bare aisles themselves the rest of their days.  But they won’t.  Mr. White doesn’t like the noise.  He’s got nerves, his wife says; but he’s got money, too, and they expect he’ll give a lot toward the carpet—­on account of the nerves, you know.  I should think he’d be glad that if he did have the nerves he’d got money, too; shouldn’t you?”