fact that you told a falsehood to-day. And, Davy,” . . . Anne leaned over the footboard of the bed and shook her finger impressively at the culprit . . . “for a boy to tell what isn’t true is almost the worst thing that could happen to him . . . almost the very worst. So you see Marilla told you the truth.”
“But I thought the something bad would be exciting,” protested Davy in an injured tone.
“Marilla isn’t to blame for what you thought. Bad things aren’t always exciting. They’re very often just nasty and stupid.”
“It was awful funny to see Marilla and you looking down the well, though,” said Davy, hugging his knees.
Anne kept a sober face until she got downstairs and then she collapsed on the sitting room lounge and laughed until her sides ached.
“I wish you’d tell me the joke,” said Marilla, a little grimly. “I haven’t seen much to laugh at to-day.”
“You’ll laugh when you hear this,” assured Anne. And Marilla did laugh, which showed how much her education had advanced since the adoption of Anne. But she sighed immediately afterwards.
“I suppose I shouldn’t have told him that, although I heard a minister say it to a child once. But he did aggravate me so. It was that night you were at the Carmody concert and I was putting him to bed. He said he didn’t see the good of praying until he got big enough to be of some importance to God. Anne, I do
