Anne was kneeling at the west gable window watching the sunset sky that was like a great flower with petals of crocus and a heart of fiery yellow.  She turned her head at Davy’s question and answered dreamily,

     “’Over the mountains of the moon,
     Down the valley of the shadow.’”

Paul Irving would have known the meaning of this, or made a meaning out of it for himself, if he didn’t; but practical Davy, who, as Anne often despairingly remarked, hadn’t a particle of imagination, was only puzzled and disgusted.

“Anne, I believe you’re just talking nonsense.”

“Of course, I was, dear boy.  Don’t you know that it is only very foolish folk who talk sense all the time?”

“Well, I think you might give a sensible answer when I ask a sensible question,” said Davy in an injured tone.

“Oh, you are too little to understand,” said Anne.  But she felt rather ashamed of saying it; for had she not, in keen remembrance of many similar snubs administered in her own early years, solemnly vowed that she would never tell any child it was too little to understand?  Yet here she was doing it . . . so wide sometimes is the gulf between theory and practice.

“Well, I’m doing my best to grow,” said Davy, “but it’s a thing you can’t hurry much.  If Marilla wasn’t so stingy with her jam I believe I’d grow a lot faster.”

“Marilla is not stingy, Davy,” said Anne severely.  “It is very ungrateful of you to say such a thing.”

“There’s another word that means the same thing and sounds a lot better, but I don’t just remember it,” said Davy, frowning intently.  “I heard Marilla say she was it, herself, the other day.”

“If you mean economical, it’s a very different thing from being stingy.  It is an excellent trait in a person if she is economical.  If Marilla had been stingy she wouldn’t have taken you and Dora when your mother died.  Would you have liked to live with Mrs. Wiggins?”

“You just bet I wouldn’t!” Davy was emphatic on that point.  “Nor I don’t want to go out to Uncle Richard neither.  I’d far rather live here, even if Marilla is that long-tailed word when it comes to jam, ’cause you’re here, Anne.  Say, Anne, won’t you tell me a story ’fore I go to sleep?  I don’t want a fairy story.  They’re all right for girls, I s’pose, but I want something exciting . . . lots of killing and shooting in it, and a house on fire, and in’trusting things like that.”

Fortunately for Anne, Marilla called out at this moment from her room.

“Anne, Diana’s signaling at a great rate.  You’d better see what she wants.”

Anne ran to the east gable and saw flashes of light coming through the twilight from Diana’s window in groups of five, which meant, according to their old childish code, “Come over at once for I have something important to reveal.”  Anne threw her white shawl over her head and hastened through the Haunted Wood and across Mr. Bell’s pasture corner to Orchard Slope.