“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.