“Davy!”
“Oh—I’ll ask Him—I’ll ask Him,” said Davy quickly, scrambling off the bed, convinced by Anne’s tone that he must have said something dreadful. “I don’t mind asking Him, Anne.—Please, God, I’m awful sorry I behaved bad to-day and I’ll try to be good on Sundays always and please forgive me.—There now, Anne.”
“Well, now, run off to bed like a good boy.”
“All right. Say, I don’t feel mis’rubul any more. I feel fine. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Anne slipped down on her pillows with a sigh of relief. Oh—how sleepy—she was! In another second—
“Anne!” Davy was back again by her bed. Anne dragged her eyes open.
“What is it now, dear?” she asked, trying to keep a note of impatience out of her voice.
“Anne, have you ever noticed how Mr. Harrison spits? Do you s’pose, if I practice hard, I can learn to spit just like him?”
Anne sat up.
“Davy Keith,” she said, “go straight to your bed and don’t let me catch you out of it again tonight! Go, now!”
Davy went, and stood not upon the order of his going.
