“Davy, you have forgotten to say your prayers,” said Anne rebukingly.

“No, I didn’t forget,” said Davy defiantly, “but I ain’t going to say my prayers any more.  I’m going to give up trying to be good, ’cause no matter how good I am you’d like Paul Irving better.  So I might as well be bad and have the fun of it.”

“I don’t like Paul Irving better,” said Anne seriously.  “I like you just as well, only in a different way.”

“But I want you to like me the same way,” pouted Davy.

“You can’t like different people the same way.  You don’t like Dora and me the same way, do you?”

Davy sat up and reflected.

“No . . . o . . . o,” he admitted at last, “I like Dora because she’s my sister but I like you because you’re you.”

“And I like Paul because he is Paul and Davy because he is Davy,” said Anne gaily.

“Well, I kind of wish I’d said my prayers then,” said Davy, convinced by this logic.  “But it’s too much bother getting out now to say them.  I’ll say them twice over in the morning, Anne.  Won’t that do as well?”

No, Anne was positive it would not do as well.  So Davy scrambled out and knelt down at her knee.  When he had finished his devotions he leaned back on his little, bare, brown heels and looked up at her.

“Anne, I’m gooder than I used to be.”

“Yes, indeed you are, Davy,” said Anne, who never hesitated to give credit where credit was due.

“I know I’m gooder,” said Davy confidently, “and I’ll tell you how I know it.  Today Marilla give me two pieces of bread and jam, one for me and one for Dora.  One was a good deal bigger than the other and Marilla didn’t say which was mine.  But I give the biggest piece to Dora.  That was good of me, wasn’t it?”

“Very good, and very manly, Davy.”

“Of course,” admitted Davy, “Dora wasn’t very hungry and she only et half her slice and then she give the rest to me.  But I didn’t know she was going to do that when I give it to her, so I was good, Anne.”

In the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad’s Bubble and saw Gilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky Haunted Wood.  She had a sudden realization that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer.  And how manly he looked—­the tall, frank-faced fellow, with the clear, straightforward eyes and the broad shoulders.  Anne thought Gilbert was a very handsome lad, even though he didn’t look at all like her ideal man.  She and Diana had long ago decided what kind of a man they admired and their tastes seemed exactly similar.  He must be very tall and distinguished looking, with melancholy, inscrutable eyes, and a melting, sympathetic voice.  There was nothing either melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert’s physiognomy, but of course that didn’t matter in friendship!