“Lose time—sleeping!” exclaimed the sick woman.
“Yes, when you might be just living, you know. It seems such a pity we can't live nights, too.”
Once again the woman pulled herself erect in her bed.
“Well, if you ain't the amazing young one!” she cried. “Here! do you go to that window and pull up the curtain,” she directed. “I should like to know what you look like!”
Pollyanna rose to her feet, but she laughed a little ruefully.
“O dear! then you'll see my freckles, won't you?” she sighed, as she went to the window; “—and just when I was being so glad it was dark and you couldn't see 'em. There! Now you can—oh!” she broke off excitedly, as she turned back to the bed; “I'm so glad you wanted to see me, because now I can see you! They didn't tell me you were so pretty!”
“Me!—pretty!” scoffed the woman, bitterly.
“Why, yes. Didn't you know it?” cried Pollyanna.
“Well, no, I didn't,” retorted Mrs. Snow, dryly. Mrs. Snow had lived forty years, and for fifteen of those years she had been too busy wishing things were different to find much time to enjoy things as they were.
“Oh, but your eyes are so big and dark, and your hair's all dark, too, and curly,” cooed Pollyanna. “I love black curls. (That's one of the things I'm going to have when I get to Heaven.) And you've got two little red spots in your cheeks. Why, Mrs. Snow, you ARE pretty! I should think you'd know it when you looked at yourself in the glass.”