“How mis’rubul I am.”
“Why are you miserable, dear?”
“’Cause I was so bad today, Anne. Oh, I was awful bad—badder’n I’ve ever been yet.”
“What did you do?”
“Oh, I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll never like me again, Anne. I couldn’t say my prayers tonight. I couldn’t tell God what I’d done. I was ’shamed to have Him know.”
“But He knew anyway, Davy.”
“That’s what Dora said. But I thought p’raps He mightn’t have noticed just at the time. Anyway, I’d rather tell you first.”
“What is it you did?”
Out it all came in a rush.
“I run away from Sunday School—and went fishing with the Cottons—and I told ever so many whoppers to Mrs. Lynde—oh! ’most half a dozen—and—and—I—I said a swear word, Anne—a pretty near swear word, anyhow—and I called God names.”
There was silence. Davy didn’t know what to make of it. Was Anne so shocked that she never would speak to him again?
“Anne, what are you going to do to me?” he whispered.
“Nothing, dear. You’ve been punished already, I think.”
“No, I haven’t. Nothing’s been done to me.”
“You’ve been very unhappy ever since you did wrong, haven’t you?”
