“You—­you won’t be mad if I tell you?” implored Davy.

Anne lifted the little gray-flannelled body on her knee and cuddled his head on her arm.

“Do I ever get ‘mad’ when you tell me things, Davy?”

“No-o-o, you never do.  But you get sorry, and that’s worse.  You’ll be awful sorry when I tell you this, Anne—­and you’ll be ’shamed of me, I s’pose.”

“Have you done something naughty, Davy, and is that why you can’t say your prayers?”

“No, I haven’t done anything naughty—­yet.  But I want to do it.”

“What is it, Davy?”

“I—­I want to say a bad word, Anne,” blurted out Davy, with a desperate effort.  “I heard Mr. Harrison’s hired boy say it one day last week, and ever since I’ve been wanting to say it all the time—­even when I’m saying my prayers.”

“Say it then, Davy.”

Davy lifted his flushed face in amazement.

“But, Anne, it’s an awful bad word.”

“Say it!”

Davy gave her another incredulous look, then in a low voice he said the dreadful word.  The next minute his face was burrowing against her.

“Oh, Anne, I’ll never say it again—­never.  I’ll never want to say it again.  I knew it was bad, but I didn’t s’pose it was so—­so—­I didn’t s’pose it was like that.”

“No, I don’t think you’ll ever want to say it again, Davy—­or think it, either.  And I wouldn’t go about much with Mr. Harrison’s hired boy if I were you.”

“He can make bully war-whoops,” said Davy a little regretfully.

“But you don’t want your mind filled with bad words, do you, Davy—­words that will poison it and drive out all that is good and manly?”

“No,” said Davy, owl-eyed with introspection.

“Then don’t go with those people who use them.  And now do you feel as if you could say your prayers, Davy?”

“Oh, yes,” said Davy, eagerly wriggling down on his knees, “I can say them now all right.  I ain’t scared now to say ’if I should die before I wake,’ like I was when I was wanting to say that word.”

Probably Anne and Diana did empty out their souls to each other that night, but no record of their confidences has been preserved.  They both looked as fresh and bright-eyed at breakfast as only youth can look after unlawful hours of revelry and confession.  There had been no snow up to this time, but as Diana crossed the old log bridge on her homeward way the white flakes were beginning to flutter down over the fields and woods, russet and gray in their dreamless sleep.  Soon the far-away slopes and hills were dim and wraith-like through their gauzy scarfing, as if pale autumn had flung a misty bridal veil over her hair and was waiting for her wintry bridegroom.  So they had a white Christmas after all, and a very pleasant day it was.  In the forenoon letters and gifts came from Miss Lavendar and Paul; Anne opened them in the cheerful Green Gables kitchen, which was filled with what Davy, sniffing in ecstasy, called “pretty smells.”