“You’ve had as much as was good for you,” said Marilla; but she gave him a moderate second helping.

“I wish people could live on pudding.  Why can’t they, Marilla?  I want to know.”

“Because they’d soon get tired of it.”

“I’d like to try that for myself,” said skeptical Davy.  “But I guess it’s better to have pudding only on fish and company days than none at all.  They never have any at Milty Boulter’s.  Milty says when company comes his mother gives them cheese and cuts it herself . . . one little bit apiece and one over for manners.”

“If Milty Boulter talks like that about his mother at least you needn’t repeat it,” said Marilla severely.

“Bless my soul,” . . .  Davy had picked this expression up from Mr. Harrison and used it with great gusto . . .  “Milty meant it as a compelment.  He’s awful proud of his mother, cause folks say she could scratch a living on a rock.”

“I . . .  I suppose them pesky hens are in my pansy bed again,” said Marilla, rising and going out hurriedly.

The slandered hens were nowhere near the pansy bed and Marilla did not even glance at it.  Instead, she sat down on the cellar hatch and laughed until she was ashamed of herself.

When Anne and Paul reached the stone house that afternoon they found Miss Lavendar and Charlotta the Fourth in the garden, weeding, raking, clipping, and trimming as if for dear life.  Miss Lavendar herself, all gay and sweet in the frills and laces she loved, dropped her shears and ran joyously to meet her guests, while Charlotta the Fourth grinned cheerfully.

“Welcome, Anne.  I thought you’d come today.  You belong to the afternoon so it brought you.  Things that belong together are sure to come together.  What a lot of trouble that would save some people if they only knew it.  But they don’t . . . and so they waste beautiful energy moving heaven and earth to bring things together that don’t belong.  And you, Paul . . . why, you’ve grown!  You’re half a head taller than when you were here before.”

“Yes, I’ve begun to grow like pigweed in the night, as Mrs. Lynde says,” said Paul, in frank delight over the fact.  “Grandma says it’s the porridge taking effect at last.  Perhaps it is.  Goodness knows . . .”  Paul sighed deeply . . .  “I’ve eaten enough to make anyone grow.  I do hope, now that I’ve begun, I’ll keep on till I’m as tall as father.  He is six feet, you know, Miss Lavendar.”

Yes, Miss Lavendar did know; the flush on her pretty cheeks deepened a little; she took Paul’s hand on one side and Anne’s on the other and walked to the house in silence.

“Is it a good day for the echoes, Miss Lavendar?” queried Paul anxiously.  The day of his first visit had been too windy for echoes and Paul had been much disappointed.