At the bottom of the stairs lay a big pink conch shell amid the fragments of what had been Miss Barry’s platter; and at the top of the stairs knelt a terrified Davy, gazing down with wide-open eyes at the havoc.
“Davy,” said Marilla ominously, “did you throw that conch down on purpose?”
“No, I never did,” whimpered Davy. “I was just kneeling here, quiet as quiet, to watch you folks through the bannisters, and my foot struck that old thing and pushed it off . . . and I’m awful hungry . . . and I do wish you’d lick a fellow and have done with it, instead of always sending him upstairs to miss all the fun.”
“Don’t blame Davy,” said Anne, gathering up the fragments with trembling fingers. “It was my fault. I set that platter there and forgot all about it. I am properly punished for my carelessness; but oh, what will Miss Barry say?”
“Well, you know she only bought it, so it isn’t the same as if it was an heirloom,” said Diana, trying to console.
The guests went away soon after, feeling that it was the most tactful thing to do, and Anne and Diana washed the dishes, talking less than they had ever been known to do before. Then Diana went home with a headache and Anne went with another to the east gable, where she stayed until Marilla came home from the post office at sunset, with a letter from Priscilla, written the day before. Mrs. Morgan had
