“I never felt glad to see Gilbert go before,” she thought, half-resentfully, half-sorrowfully, as she walked alone up the lane.  “Our friendship will be spoiled if he goes on with this nonsense.  It mustn’t be spoiled—­I won’t let it.  Oh, why can’t boys be just sensible!”

Anne had an uneasy doubt that it was not strictly “sensible” that she should still feel on her hand the warm pressure of Gilbert’s, as distinctly as she had felt it for the swift second his had rested there; and still less sensible that the sensation was far from being an unpleasant one—­very different from that which had attended a similar demonstration on Charlie Sloane’s part, when she had been sitting out a dance with him at a White Sands party three nights before.  Anne shivered over the disagreeable recollection.  But all problems connected with infatuated swains vanished from her mind when she entered the homely, unsentimental atmosphere of the Green Gables kitchen where an eight-year-old boy was crying grievously on the sofa.

“What is the matter, Davy?” asked Anne, taking him up in her arms.  “Where are Marilla and Dora?”

“Marilla’s putting Dora to bed,” sobbed Davy, “and I’m crying ’cause Dora fell down the outside cellar steps, heels over head, and scraped all the skin off her nose, and—­”

“Oh, well, don’t cry about it, dear.  Of course, you are sorry for her, but crying won’t help her any.  She’ll be all right tomorrow.  Crying never helps any one, Davy-boy, and—­”

“I ain’t crying ’cause Dora fell down cellar,” said Davy, cutting short Anne’s wellmeant preachment with increasing bitterness.  “I’m crying, cause I wasn’t there to see her fall.  I’m always missing some fun or other, seems to me.”

“Oh, Davy!” Anne choked back an unholy shriek of laughter.  “Would you call it fun to see poor little Dora fall down the steps and get hurt?”

“She wasn’t much hurt,” said Davy, defiantly. “’Course, if she’d been killed I’d have been real sorry, Anne.  But the Keiths ain’t so easy killed.  They’re like the Blewetts, I guess.  Herb Blewett fell off the hayloft last Wednesday, and rolled right down through the turnip chute into the box stall, where they had a fearful wild, cross horse, and rolled right under his heels.  And still he got out alive, with only three bones broke.  Mrs. Lynde says there are some folks you can’t kill with a meat-axe.  Is Mrs. Lynde coming here tomorrow, Anne?”

“Yes, Davy, and I hope you’ll be always very nice and good to her.”

“I’ll be nice and good.  But will she ever put me to bed at nights, Anne?”

“Perhaps.  Why?”

“’Cause,” said Davy very decidedly, “if she does I won’t say my prayers before her like I do before you, Anne.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I don’t think it would be nice to talk to God before strangers, Anne.  Dora can say hers to Mrs. Lynde if she likes, but I won’t.  I’ll wait till she’s gone and then say ’em.  Won’t that be all right, Anne?”