Anne was lonely; Diana, during the whole of the holidays, was imprisoned at home with a bad attack of bronchitis.  She could not come to Green Gables and it was rarely Anne could get to Orchard Slope, for the old way through the Haunted Wood was impassable with drifts, and the long way over the frozen Lake of Shining Waters was almost as bad.  Ruby Gillis was sleeping in the white-heaped graveyard; Jane Andrews was teaching a school on western prairies.  Gilbert, to be sure, was still faithful, and waded up to Green Gables every possible evening.  But Gilbert’s visits were not what they once were.  Anne almost dreaded them.  It was very disconcerting to look up in the midst of a sudden silence and find Gilbert’s hazel eyes fixed upon her with a quite unmistakable expression in their grave depths; and it was still more disconcerting to find herself blushing hotly and uncomfortably under his gaze, just as if—­just as if—­well, it was very embarrassing.  Anne wished herself back at Patty’s Place, where there was always somebody else about to take the edge off a delicate situation.  At Green Gables Marilla went promptly to Mrs. Lynde’s domain when Gilbert came and insisted on taking the twins with her.  The significance of this was unmistakable and Anne was in a helpless fury over it.

Davy, however, was perfectly happy.  He reveled in getting out in the morning and shoveling out the paths to the well and henhouse.  He gloried in the Christmas-tide delicacies which Marilla and Mrs. Lynde vied with each other in preparing for Anne, and he was reading an enthralling tale, in a school library book, of a wonderful hero who seemed blessed with a miraculous faculty for getting into scrapes from which he was usually delivered by an earthquake or a volcanic explosion, which blew him high and dry out of his troubles, landed him in a fortune, and closed the story with proper eclat.

“I tell you it’s a bully story, Anne,” he said ecstatically.  “I’d ever so much rather read it than the Bible.”

“Would you?” smiled Anne.

Davy peered curiously at her.

“You don’t seem a bit shocked, Anne.  Mrs. Lynde was awful shocked when I said it to her.”

“No, I’m not shocked, Davy.  I think it’s quite natural that a nine-year-old boy would sooner read an adventure story than the Bible.  But when you are older I hope and think that you will realize what a wonderful book the Bible is.”

“Oh, I think some parts of it are fine,” conceded Davy.  “That story about Joseph now—­it’s bully.  But if I’d been Joseph I wouldn’t have forgive the brothers.  No, siree, Anne.  I’d have cut all their heads off.  Mrs. Lynde was awful mad when I said that and shut the Bible up and said she’d never read me any more of it if I talked like that.  So I don’t talk now when she reads it Sunday afternoons; I just think things and say them to Milty Boulter next day in school.  I told Milty the story about Elisha and the bears and it scared him so he’s never made fun of Mr. Harrison’s bald head once.  Are there any bears on P.E.  Island, Anne?  I want to know.”