Pollyanna

Miss Polly’s right-hand man, Timothy was her left.
Timothy was a good-natured youth, and a good-looking one, as well. Short as had been Nancy’s stay at the house, the two were already good friends. Today, however, Nancy was too full of her mission to be her usual talkative self; and almost in silence she took the drive to the station and alighted to wait for the train.
Over and over in her mind she was saying it “light hair, red-checked dress, straw hat.” Over and over again she was wondering just what sort of child this Pollyanna was, anyway.
“I hope for her sake she’s quiet and sensible, and don’t drop knives nor bang doors,” she sighed to Timothy, who had sauntered up to her.
“Well, if she ain’t, nobody knows what’ll become of the rest of us,” grinned Timothy. “Imagine Miss Polly and a noisy kid! Gorry! there goes the whistle now!”
“Oh, Timothy, I⁠—I think it was mean ter send me,” chattered the suddenly frightened Nancy, as she turned and hurried to a point where she could best watch the passengers alight at the little station.
It was not long before Nancy saw her⁠—the slender little girl in the red-checked gingham with two fat braids of flaxen hair hanging down her back. Beneath the straw hat, an eager, freckled little face turned to the right and to the left, plainly searching for someone.
Nancy knew the child at once, but not for some time could she control her shaking knees sufficiently to go to her. The little girl was standing quite by herself when Nancy finally did approach her.
“Are you Miss⁠—Pollyanna?” she faltered. The next moment she found herself half smothered in the clasp of two gingham-clad arms.
“Oh, I’m so glad, glad, glad to see you,” cried an eager voice in her ear. “Of course I’m Pollyanna, and I’m so glad you came to meet me! I hoped you would.”
“You⁠—you did?” stammered Nancy, vaguely wondering how Pollyanna could possibly have known her⁠—and wanted her. “You⁠—you did?” she repeated, trying to straighten her hat.
“Oh, yes; and I’ve been wondering all the way here what you looked like,” cried the little girl, dancing on her toes, and sweeping the embarrassed Nancy from head to foot, with her eyes. “And now I know, and I’m glad you look just like you do look.”
Nancy was relieved just then to have Timothy come up. Pollyanna’s words had been most confusing.
“This is Timothy. Maybe you have a trunk,” she stammered.
“Yes, I have,” nodded Pollyanna, importantly. “I’ve got a brand-new one. The Ladies’ Aid bought it for me⁠—and wasn’t it lovely of them, when they wanted the carpet so? Of course I don’t know how much red carpet a trunk could buy, but it ought to buy some, anyhow⁠—much as half an aisle, don’t you think? I’ve got a little thing here in my bag that  Mr. Gray said was a check, and that I must give it to you before I could get my trunk.  Mr. Gray is  Mrs. Gray’s husband. They’re cousins of Deacon Carr’s wife. I came East with them, and they’re lovely! And⁠—there, here ’tis,” she finished, producing the check after much fumbling in the bag she carried.
Nancy drew a long breath. Instinctively she felt that someone had to draw one⁠—after that speech. Then she stole a glance at Timothy. Timothy’s eyes were studiously turned away.
The three were off at last, with Pollyanna’s trunk in behind, and Pollyanna herself snugly ensconced between Nancy and Timothy. During the whole process of getting started, the little girl had kept up an uninterrupted stream of comments and questions, until the somewhat dazed Nancy found herself quite out of breath trying to keep up with her.
“There! Isn’t this lovely? Is it far? I hope ’tis⁠—I love to ride,” sighed Pollyanna, as the wheels began to turn. “Of course, if ’tisn’t far, I shan’t mind, though, ’cause I’ll be glad to get there all the sooner, you know. What a pretty street! I knew ’twas going to be pretty; father told me⁠—”
She stopped with a little choking breath. Nancy, looking at her apprehensively, saw that her small chin was quivering, and that her eyes were full of tears. In a moment, however, she hurried on, with a brave lifting of her head.
“Father told me all about it. He remembered. And⁠—and I ought to have explained before.  Mrs. Gray told me to, at once⁠—about this red gingham dress, you know, and why I’m not in black. She said you’d think ’twas queer. But there weren’t any black things in the last missionary barrel, only a lady’s velvet basque which Deacon Carr’s wife said wasn’t suitable for me at all; besides, it had white spots⁠—worn, you know⁠—on both elbows, and some other places. Part of the Ladies’ Aid wanted to buy me a black dress and hat, but the other part thought the money ought to go toward the red carpet they’re trying to get⁠—for the church, you know.  Mrs. White said maybe it was just as well, anyway, for she didn’t like children in black⁠—that is, I mean, she liked the children, of course, but not the black part.”
Pollyanna paused for breath, and Nancy managed to stammer:
“Well, I’m sure it⁠—it’ll be all right.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I do, too,” nodded Pollyanna, again with that choking little breath. “Of course, ’twould have been a good deal harder to be glad in black⁠—”
“Glad!” gasped Nancy, surprised into an interruption.
“Yes⁠—that father’s gone to Heaven to be with mother and the rest of us, you know. He said I must be glad. But it’s been pretty hard to⁠—to do it, even in red gingham, because I⁠—I wanted him, so; and I couldn’t help feeling I ought to have him, specially as mother and the rest have God and all the angels, while I didn’t have anybody but the Ladies’ Aid. But now I’m sure it’ll be easier because I’ve got you, Aunt Polly. I’m so glad I’ve got you!”
Nancy’s aching sympathy for the poor little forlornness beside her turned suddenly into