“But I want you to like me the same way,” pouted Davy.
“You can’t like different people the same way. You don’t like Dora and me the same way, do you?”
Davy sat up and reflected.
“No . . . o . . . o,” he admitted at last, “I like Dora because she’s my sister but I like you because you’re you.”
“And I like Paul because he is Paul and Davy because he is Davy,” said Anne gaily.
“Well, I kind of wish I’d said my prayers then,” said Davy, convinced by this logic. “But it’s too much bother getting out now to say them. I’ll say them twice over in the morning, Anne. Won’t that do as well?”
No, Anne was positive it would not do as well. So Davy scrambled out and knelt down at her knee. When he had finished his devotions he leaned back on his little, bare, brown heels and looked up at her.
“Anne, I’m gooder than I used to be.”
“Yes, indeed you are, Davy,” said Anne, who never hesitated to give credit where credit was due.
“I know I’m gooder,” said Davy confidently, “and I’ll tell you how I know it. To-day Marilla give me two pieces of bread and jam, one for me and one for Dora. One was a good deal bigger than the other and Marilla didn’t say which was mine. But I give the biggest piece to Dora. That was good of me, wasn’t it?”
“Very good, and very manly, Davy.”
