Pollyanna knew that the Ladies’ Aid met at two o’clock in the chapel next the church, not quite half a mile from home.  She planned her going, therefore, so that she should get there a little before three.

“I want them all to be there,” she said to herself; “else the very one that wasn’t there might be the one who would be wanting to give Jimmy Bean a home; and, of course, two o’clock always means three, really—­to Ladies’ Aiders.”

Quietly, but with confident courage, Pollyanna ascended the chapel steps, pushed open the door and entered the vestibule.  A soft babel of feminine chatter and laughter came from the main room.  Hesitating only a brief moment Pollyanna pushed open one of the inner doors.

The chatter dropped to a surprised hush.  Pollyanna advanced a little timidly.  Now that the time had come, she felt unwontedly shy.  After all, these half-strange, half-familiar faces about her were not her own dear Ladies’ Aid.

“How do you do, Ladies’ Aiders?” she faltered politely.  “I’m Pollyanna Whittier.  I—­I reckon some of you know me, maybe; anyway, I do you—­only I don’t know you all together this way.”

The silence could almost be felt now.  Some of the ladies did know this rather extraordinary niece of their fellow-member, and nearly all had heard of her; but not one of them could think of anything to say, just then.

“I—­I’ve come to—­to lay the case before you,” stammered Pollyanna, after a moment, unconsciously falling into her father’s familiar phraseology.

There was a slight rustle.

“Did—­did your aunt send you, my dear?” asked Mrs. Ford, the minister’s wife.

Pollyanna colored a little.

“Oh, no.  I came all by myself.  You see, I’m used to Ladies’ Aiders.  It was Ladies’ Aiders that brought me up—­with father.”

Somebody tittered hysterically, and the minister’s wife frowned.

“Yes, dear.  What is it?”

“Well, it—­it’s Jimmy Bean,” sighed Pollyanna.  “He hasn’t any home except the Orphan one, and they’re full, and don’t want him, anyhow, he thinks; so he wants another.  He wants one of the common kind, that has a mother instead of a Matron in it—­folks, you know, that’ll care.  He’s ten years old going on eleven.  I thought some of you might like him—­to live with you, you know.”

“Well, did you ever!” murmured a voice, breaking the dazed pause that followed Pollyanna’s words.

With anxious eyes Pollyanna swept the circle of faces about her.

“Oh, I forgot to say; he will work,” she supplemented eagerly.

Still there was silence; then, coldly, one or two women began to question her.  After a time they all had the story and began to talk among themselves, animatedly, not quite pleasantly.