so long, thinking of it, and wondering if Mary Joe was right. I couldn’t bear to ask Grandma about it somehow, but I made up my mind I’d ask you. I’m so glad you think I’m all right in my upper story.”
“Of course you are. Mary Joe is a silly, ignorant girl, and you are never to worry about anything she says,” said Anne indignantly, secretly resolving to give Mrs. Irving a discreet hint as to the advisability of restraining Mary Joe’s tongue.
“Well, that’s a weight off my mind,” said Paul. “I’m perfectly happy now, teacher, thanks to you. It wouldn’t be nice to have something wrong in your upper story, would it, teacher? I suppose the reason Mary Joe imagines I have is because I tell her what I think about things sometimes.”
“It is a rather dangerous practice,” admitted Anne, out of the depths of her own experience.
“Well, by and by I’ll tell you the thoughts I told Mary Joe and you can see for yourself if there’s anything queer in them,” said Paul, “but I’ll wait till it begins to get dark. That is the time I ache to tell people things, and when nobody else is handy I just have to tell Mary Joe. But after this I won’t, if it makes her imagine I’m wrong in my upper story. I’ll just ache and bear it.”
“And if the ache gets too bad you can come up to Green Gables and tell me your thoughts,” suggested Anne, with all the gravity that endeared her to children, who so dearly love to be taken seriously.
“Yes, I will. But I hope Davy won’t be there
