“Oh, Dora, Dora, what a fright you have given us!  How came you to be here?”

“Davy and I came over to see Ginger,” sobbed Dora, “but we couldn’t see him after all, only Davy made him swear by kicking the door.  And then Davy brought me here and run out and shut the door; and I couldn’t get out.  I cried and cried, I was frightened, and oh, I’m so hungry and cold; and I thought you’d never come, Anne.”

“Davy?” But Anne could say no more.  She carried Dora home with a heavy heart.  Her joy at finding the child safe and sound was drowned out in the pain caused by Davy’s behavior.  The freak of shutting Dora up might easily have been pardoned.  But Davy had told falsehoods . . . downright coldblooded falsehoods about it.  That was the ugly fact and Anne could not shut her eyes to it.  She could have sat down and cried with sheer disappointment.  She had grown to love Davy dearly . . . how dearly she had not known until this minute . . . and it hurt her unbearably to discover that he was guilty of deliberate falsehood.

Marilla listened to Anne’s tale in a silence that boded no good Davy-ward; Mr. Barry laughed and advised that Davy be summarily dealt with.  When he had gone home Anne soothed and warmed the sobbing, shivering Dora, got her her supper and put her to bed.  Then she returned to the kitchen, just as Marilla came grimly in, leading, or rather pulling, the reluctant, cobwebby Davy, whom she had just found hidden away in the darkest corner of the stable.

She jerked him to the mat on the middle of the floor and then went and sat down by the east window.  Anne was sitting limply by the west window.  Between them stood the culprit.  His back was toward Marilla and it was a meek, subdued, frightened back; but his face was toward Anne and although it was a little shamefaced there was a gleam of comradeship in Davy’s eyes, as if he knew he had done wrong and was going to be punished for it, but could count on a laugh over it all with Anne later on.

But no half hidden smile answered him in Anne’s gray eyes, as there might have done had it been only a question of mischief.  There was something else . . . something ugly and repulsive.

“How could you behave so, Davy?” she asked sorrowfully.

Davy squirmed uncomfortably.

“I just did it for fun.  Things have been so awful quiet here for so long that I thought it would be fun to give you folks a big scare.  It was, too.”

In spite of fear and a little remorse Davy grinned over the recollection.

“But you told a falsehood about it, Davy,” said Anne, more sorrowfully than ever.

Davy looked puzzled.

“What’s a falsehood?  Do you mean a whopper?”

“I mean a story that was not true.”

“Course I did,” said Davy frankly.  “If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have been scared.  I had to tell it.”

Anne was feeling the reaction from her fright and exertions.  Davy’s impenitent attitude gave the finishing touch.  Two big tears brimmed up in her eyes.