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 twins with her. The significance of this was unmistakable and Anne was in a helpless fury over it.

Davy, however, was perfectly happy. He reveled in getting out in the morning and shoveling out the paths to the well and henhouse. He gloried in the Christmas-tide delicacies which Marilla and Mrs. Lynde vied with each other in preparing for Anne, and he was reading an enthralling tale, in a school library book, of a wonderful hero who seemed blessed with a miraculous faculty for getting into scrapes from which he was usually delivered by an earthquake or a volcanic explosion, which blew him high and dry out of his troubles, landed him in a fortune, and closed the story with proper éclat.

“I tell you it’s a bully story, Anne,” he said ecstatically. “I’d ever so much rather read it than the Bible.”

“Would you?” smiled Anne.

Davy peered curiously at her.

“You don’t seem a bit shocked, Anne. Mrs. Lynde was awful shocked when I said it to her.”

“No, I’m not shocked, Davy. I think it’s quite natural that a nine-year-old boy would sooner read an adventure story than the Bible. But when you are older I hope and think that you will realize what a wonderful book the Bible is.”

“Oh, I think some parts of it are fine,” conceded Davy. “That story about Joseph now—it’s bully. But if I’d been Joseph I wouldn’t have forgive the brothers. No, siree, Anne. I’d have cut all their