“Anne,” he said solemnly, “is it wrong for everybody to tell whop . . . falsehoods? I want to know.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Is it wrong for a grown-up person?”
“Yes.”
“Then,” said Davy decidedly, “Marilla is bad, for she tells them. And she’s worse’n me, for I didn’t know it was wrong but she does.”
“Davy Keith, Marilla never told a story in her life,” said Anne indignantly.
“She did so. She told me last Tuesday that something dreadful would happen to me if I didn’t say my prayers every night. And I haven’t said them for over a week, just to see what would happen . . . and nothing has,” concluded Davy in an aggrieved tone.
Anne choked back a mad desire to laugh with the conviction that it would be fatal, and then earnestly set about saving Marilla’s reputation.
“Why, Davy Keith,” she said solemnly, “something dreadful has happened to you this very day.”
Davy looked sceptical.
“I s’pose you mean being sent to bed without any supper,” he said scornfully, “but that isn’t dreadful. Course, I don’t like it, but I’ve been sent to bed so much since I come here that I’m getting used to it. And you don’t save anything by making me go without supper either, for I always eat twice as much for breakfast.”
“I don’t mean your being sent to bed. I mean the
