hands, her thoughts went back to
her sister, Jennie, who had been this child's mother, and to the time
when Jennie, as a girl of twenty, had insisted upon marrying the young
minister, in spite of her family's remonstrances. There had been a man
of wealth who had wanted her--and the family had much preferred him to
the minister; but Jennie had not. The man of wealth had more years, as
well as more money, to his credit, while the minister had only a young
head full of youth's ideals and enthusiasm, and a heart full of love.
Jennie had preferred these--quite naturally, perhaps; so she had married
the minister, and had gone south with him as a home missionary's wife.

The break had come then. Miss Polly remembered it well, though she had
been but a girl of fifteen, the youngest, at the time. The family had
had little more to do with the missionary's wife. To be sure, Jennie
herself had written, for a time, and had named her last baby "Pollyanna"
for her two sisters, Polly and Anna--the other babies had all died. This
had been the last time that Jennie had written; and in a few years there
had come the news of her death, told in a short, but heart-broken little
note from the minister himself, dated at a little town in the West.

Meanwhile, time had not stood still for the occupants of the great house
on the hill. Miss Polly, looking out at the far-reaching valley below,
thought of the changes those twenty-five years had brought to her.

She was forty now, and quite alone in the world. Father, mother,
sisters--all were dead. For years, now, she had been sole mistress of
the house and of the thousands left her by her father. There were people
who had openly pitied her lonely life, and who had urged her to have
some friend or companion to live with her; but she had not welcomed
either their sympathy or their advice. She was not lonely, she said. She
liked being by herself. She preferred quiet. But now--

Miss Polly rose with frowning face and closely-shut lips. She was glad,
of course, that she was a good woman, and that she not only knew
her duty, but had sufficient strength of character to perform it.
But--POLLYANNA!--what a ridiculous name!

CHAPTER II. OLD TOM AND NANCY

In the little attic room Nancy swept and scrubbed vigorously, paying
particular attention to the corners. There were times, indeed, when the
vigor she put into her work was more of a relief to her feelings than
it was an ardor to efface dirt--Nanc