“Got what, you impossible child?”

Pollyanna was still revolving round and round her aunt.

“And I never knew you had ’em!  Can folks have ’em when you don’t know they’ve got ’em?  Do you suppose I could?—­’fore I get to Heaven, I mean,” she cried, pulling out with eager fingers the straight locks above her ears.  “But then, they wouldn’t be black, if they did come.  You can’t hide the black part.”

“Pollyanna, what does all this mean?” demanded Aunt Polly, hurriedly removing her hat, and trying to smooth back her disordered hair.

“No, no—­please, Aunt Polly!” Pollyanna’s jubilant voice turned to one of distressed appeal.  “Don’t smooth ’em out!  It’s those that I’m talking about—­those darling little black curls.  Oh, Aunt Polly, they’re so pretty!”

“Nonsense!  What do you mean, Pollyanna, by going to the Ladies’ Aid the other day in that absurd fashion about that beggar boy?”

“But it isn’t nonsense,” urged Pollyanna, answering only the first of her aunt’s remarks.  “You don’t know how pretty you look with your hair like that!  Oh, Aunt Polly, please, mayn’t I do your hair like I did Mrs. Snow’s, and put in a flower?  I’d so love to see you that way!  Why, you’d be ever so much prettier than she was!”

“Pollyanna!” (Miss Polly spoke very sharply—­all the more sharply because Pollyanna’s words had given her an odd throb of joy:  when before had anybody cared how she, or her hair looked?  When before had anybody “loved” to see her “pretty"?) “Pollyanna, you did not answer my question.  Why did you go to the Ladies’ Aid in that absurd fashion?”

“Yes’m, I know; but, please, I didn’t know it was absurd until I went and found out they’d rather see their report grow than Jimmy.  So then I wrote to my Ladies’ Aiders—­’cause Jimmy is far away from them, you know; and I thought maybe he could be their little India boy same as—­Aunt Polly, was I your little India girl?  And, Aunt Polly, you will let me do your hair, won’t you?”

Aunt Polly put her hand to her throat—­the old, helpless feeling was upon her, she knew.

“But, Pollyanna, when the ladies Old me this afternoon how you came to them, I was so ashamed!  I—­”

Pollyanna began to dance up and down lightly on her toes.

“You didn’t!—­You didn’t say I couldn’t do your hair,” she crowed triumphantly; “and so I’m sure it means just the other way ’round, sort of—­like it did the other day about Mr. Pendleton’s jelly that you didn’t send, but didn’t want me to say you didn’t send, you know.  Now wait just where you are.  I’ll get a comb.”

“But Pollyanna, Pollyanna,” remonstrated Aunt Polly, following the little girl from the room and panting up-stairs after her.

“Oh, did you come up here?” Pollyanna greeted her at the door of Miss Polly’s own room.  “That’ll be nicer yet!  I’ve got the comb.  Now sit down, please, right here.  Oh, I’m so glad you let me do it!”