“Gilbert isn’t coming home this summer, I hear,” said Marilla.

“No.”  Something in Anne’s tone made Marilla glance at her sharply, but Anne was apparently absorbed in arranging her violets in a bowl.  “See, aren’t they sweet?” she went on hurriedly.  “The year is a book, isn’t it, Marilla?  Spring’s pages are written in Mayflowers and violets, summer’s in roses, autumn’s in red maple leaves, and winter in holly and evergreen.”

“Did Gilbert do well in his examinations?” persisted Marilla.

“Excellently well.  He led his class.  But where are the twins and Mrs. Lynde?”

“Rachel and Dora are over at Mr. Harrison’s.  Davy is down at Boulters’.  I think I hear him coming now.”

Davy burst in, saw Anne, stopped, and then hurled himself upon her with a joyful yell.

“Oh, Anne, ain’t I glad to see you!  Say, Anne, I’ve grown two inches since last fall.  Mrs. Lynde measured me with her tape today, and say, Anne, see my front tooth.  It’s gone.  Mrs. Lynde tied one end of a string to it and the other end to the door, and then shut the door.  I sold it to Milty for two cents.  Milty’s collecting teeth.”

“What in the world does he want teeth for?” asked Marilla.

“To make a necklace for playing Indian Chief,” explained Davy, climbing upon Anne’s lap.  “He’s got fifteen already, and everybody’s else’s promised, so there’s no use in the rest of us starting to collect, too.  I tell you the Boulters are great business people.”

“Were you a good boy at Mrs. Boulter’s?” asked Marilla severely.

“Yes; but say, Marilla, I’m tired of being good.”

“You’d get tired of being bad much sooner, Davy-boy,” said Anne.

“Well, it’d be fun while it lasted, wouldn’t it?” persisted Davy.  “I could be sorry for it afterwards, couldn’t I?”

“Being sorry wouldn’t do away with the consequences of being bad, Davy.  Don’t you remember the Sunday last summer when you ran away from Sunday School?  You told me then that being bad wasn’t worth while.  What were you and Milty doing today?”

“Oh, we fished and chased the cat, and hunted for eggs, and yelled at the echo.  There’s a great echo in the bush behind the Boulter barn.  Say, what is echo, Anne; I want to know.”

“Echo is a beautiful nymph, Davy, living far away in the woods, and laughing at the world from among the hills.”

“What does she look like?”

“Her hair and eyes are dark, but her neck and arms are white as snow.  No mortal can ever see how fair she is.  She is fleeter than a deer, and that mocking voice of hers is all we can know of her.  You can hear her calling at night; you can hear her laughing under the stars.  But you can never see her.  She flies afar if you follow her, and laughs at you always just over the next hill.”

“Is that true, Anne?  Or is it a whopper?” demanded Davy staring.

“Davy,” said Anne despairingly, “haven’t you sense enough to distinguish between a fairytale and a falsehood?”