Marilla, with a resigned air, had cut another piece of cake for Dora.  She did not feel able to cope with Davy just then.  It had been a hard day for her, what with the funeral and the long drive.  At that moment she looked forward to the future with a pessimism that would have done credit to Eliza Andrews herself.

The twins were not noticeably alike, although both were fair.  Dora had long sleek curls that never got out of order.  Davy had a crop of fuzzy little yellow ringlets all over his round head.  Dora’s hazel eyes were gentle and mild; Davy’s were as roguish and dancing as an elf’s.  Dora’s nose was straight, Davy’s a positive snub; Dora had a “prunes and prisms” mouth, Davy’s was all smiles; and besides, he had a dimple in one cheek and none in the other, which gave him a dear, comical, lopsided look when he laughed.  Mirth and mischief lurked in every corner of his little face.

“They’d better go to bed,” said Marilla, who thought it was the easiest way to dispose of them.  “Dora will sleep with me and you can put Davy in the west gable.  You’re not afraid to sleep alone, are you, Davy?”

“No; but I ain’t going to bed for ever so long yet,” said Davy comfortably.

“Oh, yes, you are.”  That was all the much-tried Marilla said, but something in her tone squelched even Davy.  He trotted obediently upstairs with Anne.

“When I’m grown up the very first thing I’m going to do is stay up all night just to see what it would be like,” he told her confidentially.

In after years Marilla never thought of that first week of the twins’ sojourn at Green Gables without a shiver.  Not that it really was so much worse than the weeks that followed it; but it seemed so by reason of its novelty.  There was seldom a waking minute of any day when Davy was not in mischief or devising it; but his first notable exploit occurred two days after his arrival, on Sunday morning . . . a fine, warm day, as hazy and mild as September.  Anne dressed him for church while Marilla attended to Dora.  Davy at first objected strongly to having his face washed.

“Marilla washed it yesterday . . . and Mrs. Wiggins scoured me with hard soap the day of the funeral.  That’s enough for one week.  I don’t see the good of being so awful clean.  It’s lots more comfable being dirty.”

“Paul Irving washes his face every day of his own accord,” said Anne astutely.

Davy had been an inmate of Green Gables for little over forty-eight hours; but he already worshipped Anne and hated Paul Irving, whom he had heard Anne praising enthusiastically the day after his arrival.  If Paul Irving washed his face every day, that settled it.  He, Davy Keith, would do it too, if it killed him.  The same consideration induced him to submit meekly to the other details of his toilet, and he was really a handsome little lad when all was done.  Anne felt an almost maternal pride in him as she led him into the old Cuthbert pew.