is it you did?”
Out it all came in a rush.
“I run away from Sunday School — and went fishing with the Cottons — and I told ever so many whoppers to Mrs. Lynde — oh! ‘most half a dozen — and — and — I — I said a swear word, Anne — a pretty near swear word, anyhow — and I called God names.”
There was silence. Davy didn’t know what to make of it. Was Anne so shocked that she never would speak to him again?
“Anne, what are you going to do to me?” he whispered.
“Nothing, dear. You’ve been punished already, I think.”
“No, I haven’t. Nothing’s been done to me.”
“You’ve been very unhappy ever since you did wrong, haven’t you?”
“You bet!” said Davy emphatically.
“That was your conscience punishing you, Davy.”
“What’s my conscience? I want to know.”
“It’s something in you, Davy, that always tells you when you are doing wrong and makes you unhappy if you persist in doing it. Haven’t you noticed that?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know what it was. I wish I didn’t have it. I’d have lots more fun. Where is my conscience, Anne? I want to know. Is it in my stomach?”
“No, it’s in your soul,” answered Anne, thankful for the darkness, since gravity must be preserved in serious matters.
“I s’pose I can’t get clear of it then,” said Davy with a sigh. “Are you going to tell Marilla and Mrs. Lynde on me, Anne?”
“No, dear, I’m not going to tell any one. You are sorry you were naughty, aren’t you?”
“You bet!”
“And you’ll never be bad like that again.”
“No, but—” added Davy cautiously, “I might be bad some other way.”
“You won’t say naughty words, or run away on Sundays, or tell falsehoods to cover up your sins?”
“No. It doesn’t pay,” said Davy.
“Well, Davy, just tell God you are sorry and ask Him to forgive you.”
“Have YOU forgiven me, Anne?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Then,” said Davy joyously, “I don’t care much whether God does or not.”
“Davy!”
“Oh — I’ll ask Him — I’ll ask Him,” said Davy quickly, scrambling off the bed, convinced by Anne’s tone that he must have said something dreadful. “I don’t mind asking Him, Anne. — Please, God, I’m awful sorry I behaved bad today and I’ll try to be good on Sundays always and please forgive me. — There now, Anne.”
“Well, now, run off to bed like a good boy.”
“All right. Say, I don’t feel mis’rubul any more. I feel fine. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Anne slipped down on her pillows with a sigh of relief. Oh — how sleepy — she was! In another second —
“Anne!” Davy was back again by her bed. Anne dragged her eyes open.
“What is it now, dear?” she asked, trying to keep a note of impatience out of her voice.
“Anne, have you ever noticed how Mr. Harrison spits? Do you s’pose, if I practice hard, I can learn to spit just like him?”
Anne sat up.
“Davy Keith,” she said, “go straight to your bed and don’t let me catch you out of it again tonight! Go, now!”
Davy went, and stood not upon the order of his going.
Chapter XIV.
The Summons
Anne was sitting with Ruby Gillis in the Gillis’ garden after the day had crept lingeringly through it and was gone. It had been a warm, smoky summer afternoon. The world was in a splendor of outflowering. The idle valleys were full of hazes. The woodways were pranked with shadows and the fields with the purple of the asters.
Anne had given up a moonlight drive to the White Sands beach that she might spend the evening with Ruby. She had so spent many evenings that summer, although she often wondered what good it did any one, and sometimes went home deciding that she could not go again.
Ruby grew paler as the summer waned; the White Sands school was given up—”her father thought it better that she shouldn’t teach till New Year’s” — and the fancy work she loved oftener and oftener fell from hands grown too weary for it. But she was always gay, always hopeful, always chattering and whispering of her beaux, and their rivalries and despairs. It was this that made Anne’s visits hard for her. What had once been silly or amusing was gruesome, now; it was death peering through a wilful mask of life. Yet Ruby seemed to cling to her, and never let her go until she had promised to come again soon. Mrs. Lynde grumbled about Anne’s frequent visits, and declared she would catch consumption; even Marilla was dubious.
“Every time you go to see Ruby you come home looking tired out,” she said.
“It’s so very sad and dreadful,” said Anne in a low tone. “Ruby doesn’t seem to realize her condition in the least. And yet I somehow feel she needs help — craves it — and I want to give it to her and can’t. All the time I’m with her I feel as if I were watching her struggle with an invisible foe — trying to push it back with such feeble resistance as she has. That is why I come home tired.”
But tonight Anne did not feel this so keenly. Ruby was strangely quiet. She said not a word about parties and drives and dresses and “fellows.” She lay in the hammock, with her untouched work beside her, and a white shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders. Her long yellow braids of hair — how Anne had envied those beautiful braids in old schooldays! — lay on either side of her. She had taken the pins out — they made her head ache, she said. The hectic flush was gone for the time, leaving her pale and childlike.
The moon rose in the silvery sky, empearling the clouds around her. Below, the pond shimmered in its hazy radiance. Just beyond the Gillis homestead was the church, with the old graveyard beside it. The moonlight shone on the white stones, bringing them out in clear-cut relief against the dark trees behind.
“How strange the graveyard looks by moonlight!” said Ruby suddenly. “How ghostly!” she shuddered. “Anne, it won’t be long now before I’ll be lying over there. You and Diana and all the rest will be going about, full of life — and I’ll be there — in the old graveyard
