oor and
called her out. A hasty consultation with Marilla in the pantry resulted
in a decision to let both children have their teas together later on.

Tea was half over when the dining room was invaded by a forlorn figure.
Marilla and Anne stared in dismay, the Aids in amazement. Could that be
Dora . . . that sobbing nondescript in a drenched, dripping dress and hair
from which the water was streaming on Marilla's new coin-spot rug?

"Dora, what has happened to you?" cried Anne, with a guilty glance at
Mrs. Jasper Bell, whose family was said to be the only one in the world
in which accidents never occurred.

"Davy made me walk the pigpen fence," wailed Dora. "I didn't want to but
he called me a fraid-cat. And I fell off into the pigpen and my dress
got all dirty and the pig runned right over me. My dress was just awful
but Davy said if I'd stand under the pump he'd wash it clean, and I did
and he pumped water all over me but my dress ain't a bit cleaner and my
pretty sash and shoes is all spoiled."

Anne did the honors of the table alone for the rest of the meal while
Marilla went upstairs and redressed Dora in her old clothes. Davy was
caught and sent to bed without any supper. Anne went to his room at
twilight and talked to him seriously . . . a method in which she had great
faith, not altogether unjustified by results. She told him she felt very
badly over his conduct.

"I feel sorry now myself," admitted Davy, "but the trouble is I never
feel sorry for doing things till after I've did them. Dora wouldn't help
me make pies, cause she was afraid of messing her clo'es and that made
me hopping mad. I s'pose Paul Irving wouldn't have made HIS sister walk
a pigpen fence if he knew she'd fall in?"

"No, he would never dream of such a thing. Paul is a perfect little
gentleman."

Davy screwed his eyes tight shut and seemed to meditate on this for a
time. Then he crawled up and put his arms about Anne's neck, snuggling
his flushed little face down on her shoulder.

"Anne, don't you like me a little bit, even if I ain't a good boy like
Paul?"

"Indeed I do," said Anne sincerely. Somehow, it was impossible to help
liking Davy. "But I'd like you better still if you weren't so naughty."

"I . . . did something else today," went on Davy in a muffled voice. "I'm
sorry now but I'm awful scared to tell you. You won't be very cross,
will you? And you won't tell Marilla, will you?"

"I don't know, Davy. Perhaps I ought to