Pollyanna laughed gleefully.

“Oh, that isn’t my name, Mrs. Snow—­and I’m so glad ’tisn’t, too!  That would be worse than ‘Hephzibah,’ wouldn’t it?  I’m Pollyanna Whittier, Miss Polly Harrington’s niece, and I’ve come to live with her.  That’s why I’m here with the jelly this morning.”

All through the first part of this sentence, the sick woman had sat interestedly erect; but at the reference to the jelly she fell back on her pillow listlessly.

“Very well; thank you.  Your aunt is very kind, of course, but my appetite isn’t very good this morning, and I was wanting lamb—­” She stopped suddenly, then went on with an abrupt change of subject.  “I never slept a wink last night—­not a wink!”

“O dear, I wish I didn’t,” sighed Pollyanna, placing the jelly on the little stand and seating herself comfortably in the nearest chair.  “You lose such a lot of time just sleeping!  Don’t you think so?”

“Lose time—­sleeping!” exclaimed the sick woman.

“Yes, when you might be just living, you know.  It seems such a pity we can’t live nights, too.”

Once again the woman pulled herself erect in her bed.

“Well, if you ain’t the amazing young one!” she cried.  “Here! do you go to that window and pull up the curtain,” she directed.  “I should like to know what you look like!”

Pollyanna rose to her feet, but she laughed a little ruefully.

“O dear! then you’ll see my freckles, won’t you?” she sighed, as she went to the window; “—­and just when I was being so glad it was dark and you couldn’t see ’em.  There!  Now you can—­oh!” she broke off excitedly, as she turned back to the bed; “I’m so glad you wanted to see me, because now I can see you!  They didn’t tell me you were so pretty!”

“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.