“But I’d love to do it, Nancy.”

“Well, you won’t—­after you’ve done it once,” predicted Nancy, sourly.

“Why not?”

“Because nobody does.  If folks wa’n’t sorry for her there wouldn’t a soul go near her from mornin’ till night, she’s that cantankerous.  All is, I pity her daughter what has ter take care of her.”

“But, why, Nancy?”

Nancy shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, in plain words, it’s just that nothin’ what ever has happened, has happened right in Mis’ Snow’s eyes.  Even the days of the week ain’t run ter her mind.  If it’s Monday she’s bound ter say she wished ’twas Sunday; and if you take her jelly you’re pretty sure ter hear she wanted chicken—­but if you did bring her chicken, she’d be jest hankerin’ for lamb broth!”

“Why, what a funny woman,” laughed Pollyanna.  “I think I shall like to go to see her.  She must be so surprising and—­and different.  I love different folks.”

“Humph!  Well, Mis’ Snow’s ‘different,’ all right—­I hope, for the sake of the rest of us!” Nancy had finished grimly.

Pollyanna was thinking of these remarks to-day as she turned in at the gate of the shabby little cottage.  Her eyes were quite sparkling, indeed, at the prospect of meeting this “different” Mrs. Snow.

A pale-faced, tired-looking young girl answered her knock at the door.

“How do you do?” began Pollyanna politely.  “I’m from Miss Polly Harrington, and I’d like to see Mrs. Snow, please.”

“Well, if you would, you’re the first one that ever ‘liked’ to see her,” muttered the girl under her breath; but Pollyanna did not hear this.  The girl had turned and was leading the way through the hall to a door at the end of it.

In the sick-room, after the girl had ushered her in and closed the door, Pollyanna blinked a little before she could accustom her eyes to the gloom.  Then she saw, dimly outlined, a woman half-sitting up in the bed across the room.  Pollyanna advanced at once.

“How do you do, Mrs. Snow?  Aunt Polly says she hopes you are comfortable to-day, and she’s sent you some calf’s-foot jelly.”

“Dear me! jelly?” murmured a fretful voice,

“Of course I’m very much obliged, but I was hoping ’twould be lamb broth to-day.”

Pollyanna frowned a little.

“Why, I thought it was chicken you wanted when folks brought you jelly,” she said.

“What?” The sick woman turned sharply.

“Why, nothing, much,” apologized Pollyanna, hurriedly; “and of course it doesn’t really make any difference.  It’s only that Nancy said it was chicken you wanted when we brought jelly, and lamb broth when we brought chicken—­but maybe ’twas the other way, and Nancy forgot.”

The sick woman pulled herself up till she sat erect in the bed—­a most unusual thing for her to do, though Pollyanna did not know this.

“Well, Miss Impertinence, who are you?” she demanded.