“Is just being glad isn’t pro-fi-ta-ble?” asked Pollyanna, a little anxiously.

“Certainly not.”

“Oh dear! I’m afraid, now, you won’t ever play the game, Aunt Polly.”

“Game? What game?”

“Why, that father – ” Pollyanna clapped her hand to her lips. “N-nothing,” she stammered. Miss Polly frowned.

It was that afternoon that Pollyanna, coming down from her attic room, met her aunt on the stairway.

“Why, Aunt Polly,” she cried. “You were coming up to see me! Come right in. I love company,” said Pollyanna, “especially since I’ve had this room,[56] all mine, you know. And of course NOW I just love this room, even if it hasn’t got the carpets and curtains and pictures – ” With a painful blush Pollyanna stopped.

“What’s that, Pollyanna?”

Pollyanna blushed still more painfully.

“I ought not to have, of course, Aunt Polly,” she apologized. “It was only because I’d always wanted them and hadn’t had them, I suppose.”

Miss Polly rose suddenly to her feet. Her face was very red.

“That will do,[57] Pollyanna,” she said.

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