Anne, walking home from school through the Birch Path one November afternoon, felt convinced afresh that life was a very wonderful thing.

The day had been a good day;

all had gone well in her little kingdom.

St. Clair Donnell had not fought any of the other boys over the question of his name;

Prillie Rogerson’s face had been so puffed up from the effects of toothache that she did not once try to coquette with the boys in her vicinity.

Barbara Shaw had met with only one accident . . . spilling a dipper of water over the floor . . . and Anthony Pye had not been in school at all.

 “What a nice month this November has been!” said Anne, who had never quite got over her childish habit of talking to herself.

“November is usually such a disagreeable month . . . as if the year had suddenly found out that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret over it.

This year is growing old gracefully . . . just like a stately old lady who knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles.

We’ve had lovely days and delicious twilights.

This last fortnight has been so peaceful, and even Davy has been almost well-behaved.

I really think he is improving a great deal.

How quiet the woods are today . . . not a murmur except that soft wind purring in the treetops!

It sounds like surf on a faraway shore.

How dear the woods are!

You beautiful trees!

I love every one of you as a friend.”

 Anne paused to throw her arm about a slim young birch and kiss its cream-white trunk.

Diana, rounding a curve in the path, saw her and laughed.

 “Anne Shirley, you’re only pretending to be grown up.

I believe when you’re alone you’re as much a little girl as you ever were.”

 “Well, one can’t get over the habit of being a little girl all at once,” said Anne gaily.

“You see, I was little for fourteen years and I’ve only been grown-uppish for scarcely three.

I’m sure I shall always feel like a child in the woods.

These walks home from school are almost the only time I have for dreaming . . . except the half-hour or so before I go to sleep.

I’m so busy with teaching and studying and helping Marilla with the twins that I haven’t another moment for imagining things.

You don’t know what splendid adventures I have for a little while after I go to bed in the east gable every night.

I always imagine I’m something very brilliant and triumphant and splendid . . . a great prima donna or a Red Cross nurse or a queen.

Last night I was a queen.

It’s really splendid to imagine you are a queen.

You have all the fun of it without any of the inconveniences and you can stop being a queen whenever you want to, which you couldn’t in real life.

But here in the woods I like best to imagine quite different things . . . I’m a dryad living in an old pine, or a little brown wood-elf hiding under a crinkled leaf.

That white birch you caught me kissing is a sister of mine.

The only difference is, she’s a tree and I’m a girl, but that’s no real difference.

Where are you going, Diana?”

 “Down to the Dicksons.

I promised to help Alberta cut out her new dress.

Can’t you walk down in the evening, Anne, and come home with me?”

 “I might . . . since Fred Wright is away in town,” said Anne with a rather too innocent face.

 Diana blushed, tossed her head, and walked on.

She did not look offended, however.

 Anne fully intended to go down to the Dicksons’ that evening, but she did not.

When she arrived at Green Gables she found a state of affairs which banished every other thought from her mind.

Marilla met her in the yard . . . a wild-eyed Marilla.

 “Anne, Dora is lost!”

 “Dora! Lost!”

Anne looked at Davy, who was swinging on the yard gate, and detected merriment in his eyes.

“Davy, do you know where she is?”

 “No, I don’t,” said Davy stoutly.

“I haven’t seen her since dinner time, cross my heart.”

 “I’ve been away ever since one o’clock,” said Marilla.

“Thomas Lynde took sick all of a sudden and Rachel sent up for me to go at once.

When I left here Dora was playing with her doll in the kitchen and Davy was making mud pies behind the barn.

I only got home half an hour ago . . . and no Dora to be seen.

Davy declares he never saw her since I left.”

 “Neither I did,” avowed Davy solemnly.

 “She must be somewhere around,” said Anne.

“She would never wander far away alone . . . you know how timid she is.

Perhaps she has fallen asleep in one of the rooms.”

 Marilla shook her head.

 “I’ve hunted the whole house through.

But she may be in some of the buildings.”

 A thorough search followed.

Every corner of house, yard, and outbuildings was ransacked by those two distracted people.

Anne roved the orchards and the Haunted Wood, calling Dora’s name.

Marilla took a candle and explored the cellar.

Davy accompanied each of them in turn, and was fertile in thinking of places where Dora could possibly be.

Finally they met again in the yard.

 “It’s a most mysterious thing,” groaned Marilla.

 “Where can she be?” said Anne miserably

 “Maybe she’s tumbled into the well,” suggested Davy cheerfully.

 Anne and Marilla looked fearfully into each other’s eyes.

The thought had been with them both through their entire search but neither had dared to put it into words.

 “She . . . she might have,” whispered Marilla.

 Anne, feeling faint and sick, went to the wellbox and peered over.

The bucket sat on the shelf inside.

Far down below was a tiny glimmer of still water.

The Cuthbert well was the deepest in Avonlea.

If Dora. . . but Anne could not face the idea.

She shuddered and turned away.

 “Run across for Mr. Harrison,” said Marilla, wringing her hands.

 “Mr. Harrison and John Henry are both away . . . they went to town today.

I’ll go for Mr. Barry.”

 Mr. Barry came back with Anne, carrying a coil of rope to which was attached a claw-like instrument that had been the business end of a grubbing fork.

Marilla and Anne stood by, cold and shaken with horror and dread, while Mr. Barry dragged the well, and Davy, astride the gate, watched the group with a face indicative of huge enjoyment.

 Finally Mr. Barry shook his head, with a relieved air.

 “She can’t be down there.

It’s a mighty curious thing where she could have got to, though.

Look here, young man, are you sure you’ve no idea where your sister is?”

 “I’ve told you a dozen times that I haven’t,” said Davy, with an injured air.

“Maybe a tramp come and stole her.”

 “Nonsense,” said Marilla sharply, relieved from her horrible fear of the well.

“Anne, do you suppose she could have strayed over to Mr. Harrison’s?

She has always been talking about his parrot ever since that time you took her over.”

 “I can’t believe Dora would venture so far alone but I’ll go over and see,” said Anne.

 Nobody was looking at Davy just then or it would have been seen that a very decided change came over his face.

He quietly slipped off the gate and ran, as fast as his fat legs could carry him, to the barn.

 Anne hastened across the fields to the Harrison establishment in no very hopeful frame of mind.

The house was locked, the window shades were down, and there was no sign of anything living about the place.

She stood on the veranda and called Dora loudly.

 Ginger, in the kitchen behind her, shrieked and swore with sudden fierceness;

but between his outbursts Anne heard a plaintive cry from the little building in the yard which served Mr. Harrison as a toolhouse.

Anne flew to the door, unhasped it, and caught up a small mortal with a tearstained face who was sitting forlornly on an upturned nail keg.

 “Oh, Dora, Dora, what a fright you have given us!

How came you to be here?”

 “Davy and I came over to see Ginger,” sobbed Dora, “but we couldn’t see him after all, only Davy made him swear by kicking the door.

And then Davy brought me here and run out and shut the door;

and I couldn’t get out.

I cried and cried, I was frightened, and oh, I’m so hungry and cold;

and I thought you’d never come, Anne.”

 “Davy?” But Anne could say no more.

She carried Dora home with a heavy heart.

Her joy at finding the child safe and sound was drowned out in the pain caused by Davy’s behavior.

The freak of shutting Dora up might easily have been pardoned.

But Davy had told falsehoods . . . downright coldblooded falsehoods about it.

That was the ugly fact and Anne could not shut her eyes to it.

She could have sat down and cried with sheer disappointment.

She had grown to love Davy dearly . . . how dearly she had not known until this minute . . . and it hurt her unbearably to discover that he was guilty of deliberate falsehood.

 Marilla listened to Anne’s tale in a silence that boded no good Davy-ward;

Mr. Barry laughed and advised that Davy be summarily dealt with.

When he had gone home Anne soothed and warmed the sobbing, shivering Dora, got her her supper and put her to bed.

Then she returned to the kitchen, just as Marilla came grimly in, leading, or rather pulling, the reluctant, cobwebby Davy, whom she had just found hidden away in the darkest corner of the stable.

 She jerked him to the mat on the middle of the floor and then went and sat down by the east window.

Anne was sitting limply by the west window.

Between them stood the culprit.

His back was toward Marilla and it was a meek, subdued, frightened back;

but his face was toward Anne and although it was a little shamefaced there was a gleam of comradeship in Davy’s eyes, as if he knew he had done wrong and was going to be punished for it, but could count on a laugh over it all with Anne later on.

 But no half hidden smile answered him in Anne’s gray eyes, as there might have done had it been only a question of mischief.

There was something else . . . something ugly and repulsive.

 “How could you behave so, Davy?” she asked sorrowfully.

 Davy squirmed uncomfortably.

 “I just did it for fun.

Things have been so awful quiet here for so long that I thought it would be fun to give you folks a big scare.

It was, too.”

 In spite of fear and a little remorse Davy grinned over the recollection.

 “But you told a falsehood about it, Davy,” said Anne, more sorrowfully than ever.

 Davy looked puzzled.

 “What’s a falsehood?

Do you mean a whopper?”

 “I mean a story that was not true.”

 “Course I did,” said Davy frankly.

“If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have been scared.

I had to tell it.”

 Anne was feeling the reaction from her fright and exertions.

Davy’s impenitent attitude gave the finishing touch.

Two big tears brimmed up in her eyes.

 “Oh, Davy, how could you?” she said, with a quiver in her voice.

“Don’t you know how wrong it was?”

 Davy was aghast. Anne crying . . . he had made Anne cry!

A flood of real remorse rolled like a wave over his warm little heart and engulfed it.

He rushed to Anne, hurled himself into her lap, flung his arms around her neck, and burst into tears.

 “I didn’t know it was wrong to tell whoppers,” he sobbed.

“How did you expect me to know it was wrong?

All Mr. Sprott’s children told them regular every day, and cross their hearts too.

I s’pose Paul Irving never tells whoppers and here I’ve been trying awful hard to be as good as him, but now I s’pose you’ll never love me again.

But I think you might have told me it was wrong.

I’m awful sorry I’ve made you cry, Anne, and I’ll never tell a whopper again.”

 Davy buried his face in Anne’s shoulder and cried stormily.

Anne, in a sudden glad flash of understanding, held him tight and looked over his curly thatch at Marilla.

 “He didn’t know it was wrong to tell falsehoods, Marilla.

I think we must forgive him for that part of it this time if he will promise never to say what isn’t true again.”

 “I never will, now that I know it’s bad,” asseverated Davy between sobs.

“If you ever catch me telling a whopper again you can . . .” Davy groped mentally for a suitable penance . . . “you can skin me alive, Anne.”

 “Don’t say ‘whopper,’ Davy . . . say ‘falsehood,’” said the schoolma’am.

 “Why?” queried Davy, settling comfortably down and looking up with a tearstained, investigating face.

“Why ain’t whopper as good as falsehood? I want to know.

It’s just as big a word.”

 “It’s slang; and it’s wrong for little boys to use slang.”

 “There’s an awful lot of things it’s wrong to do,” said Davy with a sigh.

“I never s’posed there was so many.

I’m sorry it’s wrong to tell whop . . . falsehoods, ’cause it’s awful handy, but since it is I’m never going to tell any more.

What are you going to do to me for telling them this time?

I want to know.”

Anne looked beseechingly at Marilla.

 “I don’t want to be too hard on the child,” said Marilla.

“I daresay nobody ever did tell him it was wrong to tell lies, and those Sprott children were no fit companions for him.

Poor Mary was too sick to train him properly and I presume you couldn’t expect a six-year-old child to know things like that by instinct.

I suppose we’ll just have to assume he doesn’t know anything right and begin at the beginning.

But he’ll have to be punished for shutting Dora up, and I can’t think of any way except to send him to bed without his supper and we’ve done that so often.

Can’t you suggest something else, Anne?

I should think you ought to be able to, with that imagination you’re always talking of.”

 “But punishments are so horrid and I like to imagine only pleasant things,” said Anne, cuddling Davy.

“There are so many unpleasant things in the world already that there is no use in imagining any more.”

 In the end Davy was sent to bed, as usual, there to remain until noon next day.

He evidently did some thinking, for when Anne went up to her room a little later she heard him calling her name softly.

Going in, she found him sitting up in bed, with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his hands.

 “Anne,” he said solemnly, “is it wrong for everybody to tell whop . . . falsehoods? I want to know?”

 “Yes, indeed.”

 “Is it wrong for a grown-up person?”

 “Yes.”

 “Then,” said Davy decidedly, “Marilla is bad, for she tells them.

And she’s worse’n me, for I didn’t know it was wrong but she does.”

 “Davy Keith, Marilla never told a story in her life,” said Anne indignantly.

 “She did so. She told me last Tuesday that something dreadful would happen to me if I didn’t say my prayers every night.

And I haven’t said them for over a week, just to see what would happen . . . and nothing has,” concluded Davy in an aggrieved tone.

 Anne choked back a mad desire to laugh with the conviction that it would be fatal, and then earnestly set about saving Marilla’s reputation.

 “Why, Davy Keith,” she said solemnly, “something dreadful has happened to you this very day.”

 Davy looked sceptical.

 “I s’pose you mean being sent to bed without any supper,” he said scornfully, “but that isn’t dreadful.

Course, I don’t like it, but I’ve been sent to bed so much since I come here that I’m getting used to it.

And you don’t save anything by making me go without supper either, for I always eat twice as much for breakfast.”

 “I don’t mean your being sent to bed.

I mean the fact that you told a falsehood today.

And, Davy,” . . . Anne leaned over the footboard of the bed and shook her finger impressively at the culprit . . . “for a boy to tell what isn’t true is almost the worst thing that could happen to him . . . almost the very worst.

So you see Marilla told you the truth.”

 “But I thought the something bad would be exciting,” protested Davy in an injured tone.

 “Marilla isn’t to blame for what you thought.

Bad things aren’t always exciting.

They’re very often just nasty and stupid.”

 “It was awful funny to see Marilla and you looking down the well, though,” said Davy, hugging his knees.

 Anne kept a sober face until she got downstairs and then she collapsed on the sitting room lounge and laughed until her sides ached.

 “I wish you’d tell me the joke,” said Marilla, a little grimly.

“I haven’t seen much to laugh at today.”

 “You’ll laugh when you hear this,” assured Anne.

And Marilla did laugh, which showed how much her education had advanced since the adoption of Anne.

But she sighed immediately afterwards.

 “I suppose I shouldn’t have told him that, although I heard a minister say it to a child once.

But he did aggravate me so.

It was that night you were at the Carmody concert and I was putting him to bed.

He said he didn’t see the good of praying until he got big enough to be of some importance to God.

Anne, I do not know what we are going to do with that child.

I never saw his beat.

I’m feeling clean discouraged.”

 “Oh, don’t say that, Marilla.

Remember how bad I was when I came here.”

 “Anne, you never were bad . . . never.

I see that now, when I’ve learned what real badness is.

You were always getting into terrible scrapes, I’ll admit, but your motive was always good.

Davy is just bad from sheer love of it.”

 “Oh, no, I don’t think it is real badness with him either,” pleaded Anne.

“It’s just mischief.

And it is rather quiet for him here, you know.

He has no other boys to play with and his mind has to have something to occupy it.

Dora is so prim and proper she is no good for a boy’s playmate.

I really think it would be better to let them go to school, Marilla.”

 “No,” said Marilla resolutely, “my father always said that no child should be cooped up in the four walls of a school until it was seven years old, and Mr. Allan says the same thing.

The twins can have a few lessons at home but go to school they shan’t till they’re seven.”

 “Well, we must try to reform Davy at home then,” said Anne cheerfully.

“With all his faults he’s really a dear little chap.

I can’t help loving him.

Marilla, it may be a dreadful thing to say, but honestly, I like Davy better than Dora, for all she’s so good.”

 “I don’t know but that I do, myself,” confessed Marilla, “and it isn’t fair, for Dora isn’t a bit of trouble.

There couldn’t be a better child and you’d hardly know she was in the house.”

 “Dora is too good,” said Anne.

“She’d behave just as well if there wasn’t a soul to tell her what to do.

She was born already brought up, so she doesn’t need us;

and I think,” concluded Anne, hitting on a very vital truth, “that we always love best the people who need us.

Davy needs us badly.”

 “He certainly needs something,” agreed Marilla.

“Rachel Lynde would say it was a good spanking.”