cil, and picked up a slender green one with a beautiful point. This point she eyed with a meditative frown.
"O dear! I wonder where they get their titles," she despaired. "Maybe, though, I ought to decide on the story first, and then make a title to fit. Anyhow, I'm going to do it." And forthwith she drew a black line through the three words and poised the pencil for a fresh start.
The start was not made at once, however. Even when it was made, it must have been a false one, for at the end of half an hour the whole page was nothing but a jumble of scratched-out lines, with only a few words here and there left to tell the tale.
At this juncture Aunt Polly came into the room. She turned tired eyes upon her niece.
"Well, Pollyanna, what are you up to now?" she demanded.
Pollyanna laughed and colored guiltily.
"Nothing much, auntie. Anyhow, it doesn't look as if it were much—yet," she admitted, with a rueful smile. "Besides, it's a secret, and I'm not going to tell it yet."
"Very well; suit yourself," sighed Aunt Polly. "But I can tell you right now that if you're trying to make anything different out of those mortgage papers Mr. Hart left, it's useless. I've been all over them myself twice."
"No, dear, it isn't the papers. It's a whole heap nicer than any papers ever could be," crowed Pollyanna triumphantly, turning back to her work. In Pollyanna's eyes suddenly had risen a glowing vision
