Davy came downstairs slowly.  Dora was waiting in the hall for him, having been made ready by Mrs. Lynde.  Davy had attended to his own preparations.  He had a cent in his pocket for the Sunday School collection, and a five-cent piece for the church collection; he carried his Bible in one hand and his Sunday School quarterly in the other; he knew his lesson and his Golden Text and his catechism question perfectly.  Had he not studied them—­perforce—­in Mrs. Lynde’s kitchen, all last Sunday afternoon?  Davy, therefore, should have been in a placid frame of mind.  As a matter of fact, despite text and catechism, he was inwardly as a ravening wolf.

Mrs. Lynde limped out of her kitchen as he joined Dora.

“Are you clean?” she demanded severely.

“Yes—­all of me that shows,” Davy answered with a defiant scowl.

Mrs. Rachel sighed.  She had her suspicions about Davy’s neck and ears.  But she knew that if she attempted to make a personal examination Davy would likely take to his heels and she could not pursue him today.

“Well, be sure you behave yourselves,” she warned them.  “Don’t walk in the dust.  Don’t stop in the porch to talk to the other children.  Don’t squirm or wriggle in your places.  Don’t forget the Golden Text.  Don’t lose your collection or forget to put it in.  Don’t whisper at prayer time, and don’t forget to pay attention to the sermon.”

Davy deigned no response.  He marched away down the lane, followed by the meek Dora.  But his soul seethed within.  Davy had suffered, or thought he had suffered, many things at the hands and tongue of Mrs. Rachel Lynde since she had come to Green Gables, for Mrs. Lynde could not live with anybody, whether they were nine or ninety, without trying to bring them up properly.  And it was only the preceding afternoon that she had interfered to influence Marilla against allowing Davy to go fishing with the Timothy Cottons.  Davy was still boiling over this.

As soon as he was out of the lane Davy stopped and twisted his countenance into such an unearthly and terrific contortion that Dora, although she knew his gifts in that respect, was honestly alarmed lest he should never in the world be able to get it straightened out again.

“Darn her,” exploded Davy.

“Oh, Davy, don’t swear,” gasped Dora in dismay.

“‘Darn’ isn’t swearing—­not real swearing.  And I don’t care if it is,” retorted Davy recklessly.

“Well, if you must say dreadful words don’t say them on Sunday,” pleaded Dora.

Davy was as yet far from repentance, but in his secret soul he felt that, perhaps, he had gone a little too far.

“I’m going to invent a swear word of my own,” he declared.

“God will punish you if you do,” said Dora solemnly.

“Then I think God is a mean old scamp,” retorted Davy.  “Doesn’t He know a fellow must have some way of ’spressing his feelings?”