Polyanna

Miss Polly Harrington entered her kitchen a little hurriedly this June morning.
Miss Polly did not usually make hurried movements; she specially prided herself
on her repose of manner. But to-day she was hurrying—actually hurrying.
Nancy, washing dishes at the sink, looked up in surprise. Nancy had been
working in Miss Polly’s kitchen only two months, but already she knew that her
mistress did not usually hurry.
“Nancy!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nancy answered cheerfully, but she still continued wiping the
pitcher in her hand.
“Nancy,”—Miss Polly’s voice was very stern now—“when I’m talking to you,
I wish you to stop your work and listen to what I have to say.”
Nancy flushed miserably. She set the pitcher down at once, with the cloth still
about it, thereby nearly tipping it over—which did not add to her composure.
“Yes, ma’am; I will, ma’am,” she stammered, righting the pitcher, and turning
hastily. “I was only keepin’ on with my work ’cause you specially told me this
mornin’ ter hurry with my dishes, ye know.”
Her mistress frowned.
“That will do, Nancy. I did not ask for explanations. I asked for your
attention.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nancy stifled a sigh. She was wondering if ever in any way she
could please this woman. Nancy had never “worked out” before; but a sick
mother suddenly widowed and left with three younger children besides Nancy
herself, had forced the girl into doing something toward their support, and she
had been so pleased when she found a place in the kitchen of the great house on
the hill—Nancy had come from “The Corners,” six miles away, and she knew
Miss Polly Harrington only as the mistress of the old Harrington homestead, and
one of the wealthiest residents of the town. That was two months before. She
knew Miss Polly now as a stern, severe-faced woman who frowned if a knife
clattered to the floor, or if a door banged—but who never thought to smile even
when knives and doors were still.