A Red rose and a Lace shawl

           ItwasonarainydayaboutaweekafterPollyanna’svisittoMr.JohnPendleton,thatMissPollywasdrivenbyTimothytoanearlyafternooncommitteemeetingoftheLadies’AidSociety. Whenshereturnedatthreeo’clock,hercheekswereabright,prettypink,andherhair,blownbythedampwind,hadfluffedintokinksandcurlswherevertheloosenedpinshadgivenleave. 

           Pollyannahadneverbeforeseenherauntlooklikethis. 

           "Oh—oh—oh! Why,AuntPolly,you’vegot‘em,too,"shecriedrapturously,dancingroundandroundheraunt,asthatladyenteredthesittingroom. 

           "Gotwhat,youimpossiblechild?" 

           Pollyannawasstillrevolvingroundandroundheraunt. 

           "AndIneverknewyouhad‘em! Canfolkshave‘emwhenyoudon’tknowthey’vegot‘em? DOyousupposeIcould? —‘foreIgettoHeaven,Imean,"shecried,pullingoutwitheagerfingersthestraightlocksaboveherears. "Butthen,theywouldn’tbeblack,iftheydidcome. Youcan’thidetheblackpart." 

           "Pollyanna,whatdoesallthismean?"demandedAuntPolly,hurriedlyremovingherhat,andtryingtosmoothbackherdisorderedhair. 

           "No,no—please,AuntPolly!"Pollyanna’sjubilantvoiceturnedtooneofdistressedappeal. "Don’tsmooth‘emout! It’sthosethatI’mtalkingabout—thosedarlinglittleblackcurls. Oh,AuntPolly,they’resopretty!"