while. Then I got it."

"Did you, really? Well, what is it?" Mrs. Snow's voice was sarcastically
polite.

Pollyanna drew a long breath.

"I thought--how glad you could be--that other folks weren't like
you--all sick in bed like this, you know," she announced impressively.
Mrs. Snow stared. Her eyes were angry.

"Well, really!" she ejaculated then, in not quite an agreeable tone of
voice.

"And now I'll tell you the game," proposed Pollyanna, blithely
confident. "It'll be just lovely for you to play--it'll be so hard. And
there's so much more fun when it is hard! You see, it's like this." And
she began to tell of the missionary barrel, the crutches, and the doll
that did not come.

The story was just finished when Milly appeared at the door.

"Your aunt is wanting you, Miss Pollyanna," she said with dreary
listlessness. "She telephoned down to the Harlows' across the way. She
says you're to hurry--that you've got some practising to make up before
dark."

Pollyanna rose reluctantly.

"All right," she sighed. "I'll hurry." Suddenly she laughed. "I suppose
I ought to be glad I've got legs to hurry with, hadn't I, Mrs. Snow?"

There was no answer. Mrs. Snow's eyes were closed. But Milly, whose eyes
were wide open with surprise, saw that there were tears on the wasted
cheeks.

"Good-by," flung Pollyanna over her shoulder, as she reached the door.
"I'm awfully sorry about the hair--I wanted to do it. But maybe I can
next time!"

One by one the July days passed. To Pollyanna, they were happy days,
indeed. She often told her aunt, joyously, how very happy they were.
Whereupon her aunt would usually reply, wearily:

"Very well, Pollyanna. I am gratified, of course, that they are happy;
but I trust that they are profitable, as well--otherwise I should have
failed signally in my duty."

Generally Pollyanna would answer this with a hug and a kiss--a
proceeding that was still always most disconcerting to Miss Polly; but
one day she spoke. It was during the sewing hour.

"Do you mean that it wouldn't be enough then, Aunt Polly, that they
should be just happy days?" she asked wistfully.

"That is what I mean, Pollyanna."

"They must be pro-fi-ta-ble as well?"

"Certainly."

"What is being pro-fi-ta-ble?"

"Why, it--it's just being profitable--having profit, something to show
for it, Pollyanna. What an extraordinary child you are!"

"Then just being glad isn't pro-fi-ta-ble?" questioned Pollyanna, a
littl