ready by Mrs. Lynde. Davy had attended to his own
preparations. He had a cent in his pocket for the Sunday School
collection, and a five-cent piece for the church collection; he carried
his Bible in one hand and his Sunday School quarterly in the other;
he knew his lesson and his Golden Text and his catechism question
perfectly. Had he not studied them--perforce--in Mrs. Lynde's kitchen,
all last Sunday afternoon? Davy, therefore, should have been in a placid
frame of mind. As a matter of fact, despite text and catechism, he was
inwardly as a ravening wolf.

Mrs. Lynde limped out of her kitchen as he joined Dora.

"Are you clean?" she demanded severely.

"Yes--all of me that shows," Davy answered with a defiant scowl.

Mrs. Rachel sighed. She had her suspicions about Davy's neck and ears.
But she knew that if she attempted to make a personal examination Davy
would likely take to his heels and she could not pursue him today.

"Well, be sure you behave yourselves," she warned them. "Don't walk in
the dust. Don't stop in the porch to talk to the other children. Don't
squirm or wriggle in your places. Don't forget the Golden Text. Don't
lose your collection or forget to put it in. Don't whisper at prayer
time, and don't forget to pay attention to the sermon."

Davy deigned no response. He marched away down the lane, followed by the
meek Dora. But his soul seethed within. Davy had suffered, or thought he
had suffered, many things at the hands and tongue of Mrs. Rachel Lynde
since she had come to Green Gables, for Mrs. Lynde could not live with
anybody, whether they were nine or ninety, without trying to bring
them up properly. And it was only the preceding afternoon that she had
interfered to influence Marilla against allowing Davy to go fishing with
the Timothy Cottons. Davy was still boiling over this.

As soon as he was out of the lane Davy stopped and twisted his
countenance into such an unearthly and terrific contortion that Dora,
although she knew his gifts in that respect, was honestly alarmed lest
he should never in the world be able to get it straightened out again.

"Darn her," exploded Davy.

"Oh, Davy, don't swear," gasped Dora in dismay.

"'Darn' isn't swearing--not real swearing. And I don't care if it is,"
retorted Davy recklessly.

"Well, if you MUST say dreadful words don't say them on Sunday," pleaded
Dora.

Davy was as yet far from repentance, but in his secret soul he felt
that, perhaps, he