Less than twenty-four hours later, Miss Polly said to Nancy, crisply: 

“Nancy, you may move Miss Pollyanna’s things down-stairs this morning to the room directly beneath.  I have decided to have my niece sleep there for the present.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Nancy aloud.

“O glory!” said Nancy to herself.

To Pollyanna, a minute later, she cried joyously: 

“And won’t ye jest be listenin’ ter this, Miss Pollyanna.  You’re ter sleep down-stairs in the room straight under this.  You are—­you are!”

Pollyanna actually grew white.

“You mean—­why, Nancy, not really—­really and truly?”

“I guess you’ll think it’s really and truly,” prophesied Nancy, exultingly, nodding her head to Pollyanna over the armful of dresses she had taken from the closet.  “I’m told ter take down yer things, and I’m goin’ ter take ’em, too, ’fore she gets a chance ter change her mind.”

Pollyanna did not stop to hear the end of this sentence.  At the imminent risk of being dashed headlong, she was flying down-stairs, two steps at a time.

Bang went two doors and a chair before Pollyanna at last reached her goal—­Aunt Polly.

“Oh, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, did you mean it, really?  Why, that room’s got everything—­the carpet and curtains and three pictures, besides the one outdoors, too, ’cause the windows look the same way.  Oh, Aunt Polly!”

“Very well, Pollyanna.  I am gratified that you like the change, of course; but if you think so much of all those things, I trust you will take proper care of them; that’s all.  Pollyanna, please pick up that chair; and you have banged two doors in the last half-minute.”  Miss Polly spoke sternly, all the more sternly because, for some inexplicable reason, she felt inclined to cry—­and Miss Polly was not used to feeling inclined to cry.

Pollyanna picked up the chair.

“Yes’m; I know I banged ’em—­those doors,” she admitted cheerfully.  “You see I’d just found out about the room, and I reckon you’d have banged doors if—­” Pollyanna stopped short and eyed her aunt with new interest.  “Aunt Polly, did you ever bang doors?”

“I hope—­not, Pollyanna!” Miss Polly’s voice was properly shocked.

“Why, Aunt Polly, what a shame!” Pollyanna’s face expressed only concerned sympathy.

“A shame!” repeated Aunt Polly, too dazed to say more.

“Why, yes.  You see, if you’d felt like banging doors you’d have banged ’em, of course; and if you didn’t, that must have meant that you weren’t ever glad over anything—­or you would have banged ’em.  You couldn’t have helped it.  And I’m so sorry you weren’t ever glad over anything!”

“PollyANna!” gasped the lady; but Pollyanna was gone, and only the distant bang of the attic-stairway door answered for her.  Pollyanna had gone to help Nancy bring down “her things.”

Miss Polly, in the sitting room, felt vaguely disturbed;—­but then, of course she had been glad—­over some things!