Her eyes were brimming with tears, but her chin was bravely
high.
"After all, I--I reckon I'm glad she doesn't want me to talk
about father," Pollyanna was thinking. "It'll be easier,
maybe--if I don't talk about him. Probably, anyhow, that is why
she told me not to talk about him." And Pollyanna, convinced anew
of her aunt's "kindness," blinked off the tears and looked
eagerly about her.
She was on the stairway now. Just ahead, her aunt's black silk
skirt rustled luxuriously. Behind her an open door allowed a
glimpse of soft-tinted rugs and satin-covered chairs. Beneath her
feet a marvellous carpet was like green moss to the tread. On
every side the gilt of picture frames or the glint of sunlight
through the filmy mesh of lace curtains flashed in her eyes.
"Oh, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly," breathed the little girl,
rapturously; "what a perfectly lovely, lovely house! How awfully
glad you must be you're so rich!"
"PollyANNA!" ejaculated her aunt, turning sharply about as she
reached the head of the stairs.
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