school. Which do you like best, church, or Sunday school?"
"Well, really, I—" began Mrs. Carew, who seldom went to church and never went to Sunday school.
"'Tis hard to tell, isn't it?" interposed Pollyanna, with luminous but serious eyes. "But you see I like church best, on account of father. You know he was a minister, and of course he's really up in Heaven with mother and the rest of us, but I try to imagine him down here, lots of times; and it's easiest in church, when the minister is talking. I shut my eyes and imagine it's father up there; and it helps lots. I'm so glad we can imagine things, aren't you?"
"I'm not so sure of that, Pollyanna."
"Oh, but just think how much nicer our imagined things are than our really truly ones—that is, of course, yours aren't, because your real ones are so nice." Mrs. Carew angrily started to speak, but Pollyanna was hurrying on. "And of course my real ones are ever so much nicer than they used to be. But all that time I was hurt, when my legs didn't go, I just had to keep imagining all the time, just as hard as I could. And of course now there are lots of times when I do it—like about father, and all that. And so to-day I'm just going to imagine it's father up there in the pulpit. What time do we go?"
"Go?"
"To church, I mean."
"But, Pollyanna, I don't—that is, I'd rather not—" Mrs. Carew cleared her throat and tried again to say that she was not going to church at all;
