"But wait--just let me show you," she exclaimed, skipping over to the bureau and picking up a small hand-glass.
On the way back to the bed she stopped, eyeing the sick woman with a critical gaze.
"I reckon maybe, if you don't mind, I'd like to fix your hair just a little before I let you see it," she proposed.

"May I fix your hair, please ?" "Why, I--suppose so, if you want to," permitted Mrs.Snow, grudgingly; "but 'twon't stay, you know." "Oh, thank you.

I love to fix people's hair," exulted Pollyanna, carefully laying down the hand-glass and reaching for a comb.

"I sha'n't do much to-day, of course--I'm in such a hurry for you to see how pretty you are; but some day I'm going to take it all down and have a perfectly lovely time with it," she cried, touching with soft fingers the waving hair above the sick woman's forehead.
For five minutes Pollyanna worked swiftly, deftly, combing a refractory curl into fluffiness, perking up a drooping ruffle at the neck, or shaking a pillow into plumpness so that the head might have a better pose.

Meanwhile the sick woman, frowning prodigiously, and openly scoffing at the whole procedure, was, in spite of herself, beginning to tingle with a feeling perilously near to excitement.
"There!" panted Pollyanna, hastily plucking a pink from a vase near by and tucking it into the dark hair where it would give the best effect.
"Now I reckon we're ready to be looked at!" And she held out the mirror in triumph.
"Humph!" grunted the sick woman, eyeing her reflection severely.