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!

CHAPTER II.  OLD TOM AND NANCY

In the little attic room Nancy swept and scrubbed vigorously, paying particular attention to the corners.  There were times, indeed, when the vigor she put into her work was more of a relief to her feelings than it was an ardor to efface dirt—­Nancy, in spite of her frightened submission to her mistress, was no saint.

“I—­just—­wish—­I could—­dig—­out the corners—­of—­her—­soul!” she muttered jerkily, punctuating her words with murderous jabs of her pointed cleaning-stick.  “There’s plenty of ’em needs cleanin’ all right, all right!  The idea of stickin’ that blessed child ’way off up here in this hot little room—­with no fire in the winter, too, and all this big house ter pick and choose from!  Unnecessary children, indeed!  Humph!” snapped Nancy, wringing her rag so hard her fingers ached from the strain; “I guess it ain’t children what is most unnecessary just now, just now!”