ish they must take the consequences, just as
if they were real people," said Paul gravely. "Do you know what I think
about the new moon, teacher? I think it is a little golden boat full of
dreams."

"And when it tips on a cloud some of them spill out and fall into your
sleep."

"Exactly, teacher. Oh, you DO know. And I think the violets are little
snips of the sky that fell down when the angels cut out holes for the
stars to shine through. And the buttercups are made out of old sunshine;
and I think the sweet peas will be butterflies when they go to heaven.
Now, teacher, do you see anything so very queer about those thoughts?"

"No, laddie dear, they are not queer at all; they are strange and
beautiful thoughts for a little boy to think, and so people who couldn't
think anything of the sort themselves, if they tried for a hundred
years, think them queer. But keep on thinking them, Paul . . . some day
you are going to be a poet, I believe."

When Anne reached home she found a very different type of boyhood
waiting to be put to bed. Davy was sulky; and when Anne had undressed
him he bounced into bed and buried his face in the pillow.

"Davy, you have forgotten to say your prayers," said Anne rebukingly.

"No, I didn't forget," said Davy defiantly, "but I ain't going to say
my prayers any more. I'm going to give up trying to be good, 'cause no
matter how good I am you'd like Paul Irving better. So I might as well
be bad and have the fun of it."

"I don't like Paul Irving BETTER," said Anne seriously. "I like you just
as well, only in a different way."

"But I want you to like me the same way," pouted Davy.

"You can't like different people the same way. You don't like Dora and
me the same way, do you?"

Davy sat up and reflected.

"No . . . o . . . o," he admitted at last, "I like Dora because she's my
sister but I like you because you're YOU."

"And I like Paul because he is Paul and Davy because he is Davy," said
Anne gaily.

"Well, I kind of wish I'd said my prayers then," said Davy, convinced by
this logic. "But it's too much bother getting out now to say them. I'll
say them twice over in the morning, Anne. Won't that do as well?"

No, Anne was positive it would not do as well. So Davy scrambled out
and knelt down at her knee. When he had finished his devotions he leaned
back on his little, bare, brown heels and looked up at her.

"Anne, I'm gooder than I used to be."

"Yes, indeed you are, Davy,"