Davy had finished ravelling out his herring net and had wound the twine into a ball.  Then he had gone into the pantry to put it up on the shelf above the table, where he already kept a score or so of similar balls, which, so far as could be discovered, served no useful purpose save to yield the joy of possession.  Davy had to climb on the table and reach over to the shelf at a dangerous angle . . . something he had been forbidden by Marilla to do, as he had come to grief once before in the experiment.  The result in this instance was disastrous.  Davy slipped and came sprawling squarely down on the lemon pies.  His clean blouse was ruined for that time and the pies for all time.  It is, however, an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the pig was eventually the gainer by Davy’s mischance.

“Davy Keith,” said Marilla, shaking him by the shoulder, “didn’t I forbid you to climb up on that table again?  Didn’t I?”

“I forgot,” whimpered Davy.  “You’ve told me not to do such an awful lot of things that I can’t remember them all.”

“Well, you march upstairs and stay there till after dinner.  Perhaps you’ll get them sorted out in your memory by that time.  No, Anne, never you mind interceding for him.  I’m not punishing him because he spoiled your pies . . . that was an accident.  I’m punishing him for his disobedience.  Go, Davy, I say.”

“Ain’t I to have any dinner?” wailed Davy.

“You can come down after dinner is over and have yours in the kitchen.”

“Oh, all right,” said Davy, somewhat comforted.  “I know Anne’ll save some nice bones for me, won’t you, Anne?  ’Cause you know I didn’t mean to fall on the pies.  Say, Anne, since they are spoiled can’t I take some of the pieces upstairs with me?”

“No, no lemon pie for you, Master Davy,” said Marilla, pushing him toward the hall.

“What shall we do for dessert?” asked Anne, looking regretfully at the wreck and ruin.

“Get out a crock of strawberry preserves,” said Marilla consolingly.  “There’s plenty of whipped cream left in the bowl for it.”

One o’clock came . . . but no Priscilla or Mrs. Morgan.  Anne was in an agony.  Everything was done to a turn and the soup was just what soup should be, but couldn’t be depended on to remain so for any length of time.

“I don’t believe they’re coming after all,” said Marilla crossly.

Anne and Diana sought comfort in each other’s eyes.

At half past one Marilla again emerged from the parlor.

“Girls, we must have dinner.  Everybody is hungry and it’s no use waiting any longer.  Priscilla and Mrs. Morgan are not coming, that’s plain, and nothing is being improved by waiting.”

Anne and Diana set about lifting the dinner, with all the zest gone out of the performance.

“I don’t believe I’ll be able to eat a mouthful,” said Diana dolefully.

“Nor I. But I hope everything will be nice for Miss Stacy’s and Mr. and Mrs. Allan’s sakes,” said Anne listlessly.