“‘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?”