"Why, no, of course you didn't, Aunt Polly!" she hurried on, with
a hot blush. "I forgot; rich folks never have to have them. But
you see sometimes I kind of forget that you are rich--up here in
this room, you know."
Miss Polly's lips parted indignantly, but no words came.
Pollyanna, plainly unaware that she had said anything in the
least unpleasant, was hurrying on.
"Well, as I was going to say, you can't tell a thing about
missionary barrels--except that you won't find in 'em what you
think you're going to--even when you think you won't. It was the
barrels every time, too, that were hardest to play the game on,
for father and--"
Just in time Pollyanna remembered that she was not to talk of her
father to her aunt. She dived into her closet then, hurriedly,
and brought out all the poor little dresses in both her arms.
"They aren't nice, at all," she choked, "and they'd been black if
it hadn't been for the red carpet for the church; but they're all
I've got."
With the tips of her fingers Miss Polly turned over the
conglomerate garments, so obviously made for anybody but
Pollyanna.
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