u're home. I couldn't go to sleep till I'd told somebody."

"Told somebody what?"

"How mis'rubul I am."

"Why are you miserable, dear?"

"'Cause I was so bad today, Anne. Oh, I was awful bad--badder'n I've
ever been yet."

"What did you do?"

"Oh, I'm afraid to tell you. You'll never like me again, Anne. I
couldn't say my prayers tonight. I couldn't tell God what I'd done. I
was 'shamed to have Him know."

"But He knew anyway, Davy."

"That's what Dora said. But I thought p'raps He mightn't have noticed
just at the time. Anyway, I'd rather tell you first."

"WHAT 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."

"Da