A Surprise for Mrs. Snow

The next time Pollyanna went to see Mrs. Snow, she found that lady, as at first, in a darkened room.

“It’s the little girl from Miss Polly’s, mother,” announced Milly, in a tired manner; then Pollyanna found herself alone with the invalid.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” asked a fretful voice from the bed. “I remember you. Anybody’d remember you, I guess, if they saw you once. I wish you had come yesterday. I wanted you yesterday.”

“Did you? Well, I’m glad ’tisn’t any farther away from yesterday than today is, then,” laughed Pollyanna, advancing cheerily into the room, and setting her basket carefully down on a chair. “My! but aren’t you dark here, though? I can’t see you a bit,” she cried, unhesitatingly crossing to the window and pulling up the shade. “I want to see if you’ve fixed your hair like I did—oh, you haven’t! But, never mind; I’m glad you haven’t, after all, ’cause maybe you’ll let me do it—later. But now I want you to see what I’ve brought you.”

The woman stirred restlessly.

“Just as if how it looks would make any difference in how it tastes,” she scoffed—but she turned her eyes toward the basket. “Well, what is it?”

“Guess! What do you want?” Pollyanna had skipped back to the basket. Her face was alight. The sick woman frowned.

“Why, I don’t want anything, as I know of,” she sighed. “After all, they all taste alike!”

Pollyanna chuckled.

“This won’t. Guess! If you did want something, what would it be?”

The woman hesitated. She did not realize it herself, but she had so long been accustomed to wanting what she did not have, that to state off-hand what she did want seemed impossible—until she knew what she had. Obviously, however, she must say something. This extraordinary child was waiting.

“Well, of course, there’s lamb broth—”

“I’ve got it!” crowed Pollyanna.

“But that’s what I didn’t want,” sighed the sick woman, sure now of what her stomach craved. “It was chicken I wanted.”

“Oh, I’ve got that, too,” chuckled Pollyanna.

The woman turned in amazement.

“Both of them?” she demanded.

“Yes—and calf’s-foot jelly,” triumphed Pollyanna. “I was just bound you should have what you wanted for once; so Nancy and I fixed it. Oh, of course, there’s only a little of each—but there’s some of all of ’em! I’m so glad you did want chicken,” she went on contentedly, as she lifted the three little bowls from her basket. “You see, I got to thinking on the way here—what if you should say tripe, or onions, or something like that, that I didn’t have! Wouldn’t it have been a shame—when I’d tried so hard?” she laughed merrily.

There was no reply. The sick woman seemed to be trying—mentally to find something she had lost.