Anne took Davy on her knee and did her best to straighten out this theological tangle also.  She was much better fitted for the task than Marilla, for she remembered her own childhood and had an instinctive understanding of the curious ideas that seven-year-olds sometimes get about matters that are, of course, very plain and simple to grown up people.  She had just succeeded in convincing Davy that heaven was not in Simon Fletcher’s garret when Marilla came in from the garden, where she and Dora had been picking peas.  Dora was an industrious little soul and never happier than when “helping” in various small tasks suited to her chubby fingers.  She fed chickens, picked up chips, wiped dishes, and ran errands galore.  She was neat, faithful and observant; she never had to be told how to do a thing twice and never forgot any of her little duties.  Davy, on the other hand, was rather heedless and forgetful; but he had the born knack of winning love, and even yet Anne and Marilla liked him the better.

While Dora proudly shelled the peas and Davy made boats of the pods, with masts of matches and sails of paper, Anne told Marilla about the wonderful contents of her letter.

“Oh, Marilla, what do you think?  I’ve had a letter from Priscilla and she says that Mrs. Morgan is on the Island, and that if it is fine Thursday they are going to drive up to Avonlea and will reach here about twelve.  They will spend the afternoon with us and go to the hotel at White Sands in the evening, because some of Mrs. Morgan’s American friends are staying there.  Oh, Marilla, isn’t it wonderful?  I can hardly believe I’m not dreaming.”

“I daresay Mrs. Morgan is a lot like other people,” said Marilla drily, although she did feel a trifle excited herself.  Mrs. Morgan was a famous woman and a visit from her was no commonplace occurrence.  “They’ll be here to dinner, then?”

“Yes; and oh, Marilla, may I cook every bit of the dinner myself?  I want to feel that I can do something for the author of ‘The Rosebud Garden,’ if it is only to cook a dinner for her.  You won’t mind, will you?”

“Goodness, I’m not so fond of stewing over a hot fire in July that it would vex me very much to have someone else do it.  You’re quite welcome to the job.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Anne, as if Marilla had just conferred a tremendous favor, “I’ll make out the menu this very night.”

“You’d better not try to put on too much style,” warned Marilla, a little alarmed by the high-flown sound of ‘menu.’  “You’ll likely come to grief if you do.”

“Oh, I’m not going to put on any ‘style,’ if you mean trying to do or have things we don’t usually have on festal occasions,” assured Anne.  “That would be affectation, and, although I know I haven’t as much sense and steadiness as a girl of seventeen and a schoolteacher ought to have, I’m not so silly as that.  But I want to have everything as nice and dainty as possible.