Поллианна
The little attic room
"Breadandmilk,indeed! —andwhenthepoorlambhain’tonlyjustcriedherselftosleep,"shewasmutteringfiercely,asshesoftlypushedopenthedoor. Thenextmomentshegaveafrightenedcry. "Whereareyou? Where’veyougone? WhereHAVEyougone?"shepanted,lookinginthecloset,underthebed,andeveninthetrunkanddownthewaterpitcher. Thensheflewdown-stairsandouttoOldTominthegarden.
"Mr.Tom,Mr.Tom,thatblessedchild’sgone,"shewailed. "She’svanishedrightupintoHeavenwhereshecomefrom,poorlamb—andmetoldtergiveherbreadandmilkinthekitchen—herwhat’seatin’angelfoodthisminute,I’llwarrant,I’llwarrant!"
Theoldmanstraightenedup.
"Gone?Heaven?"herepeatedstupidly,unconsciouslysweepingthebrilliantsunsetskywithhisgaze. Hestopped,staredamomentintently,thenturnedwithaslowgrin. "Well,Nancy,itdolooklikeasifshe’dtriedtergetasnighHeavenasshecould,andthat’safact,"heagreed,pointingwithacrookedfingertowhere,sharplyoutlinedagainstthereddeningsky,aslender,wind-blownfigurewaspoisedontopofahugerock.
"Well,sheain’tgoin’terHeaventhatwayter-night—notifIhasmysay,"declaredNancy,doggedly. "Ifthemistressasks,tellherIain’tfurgettin’thedishes,butIgoneonastroll,"sheflungbackoverhershoulder,asshespedtowardthepaththatledthroughtheopenfield.
