XXVII. An Afternoon at the Stone House

           “Whereareyougoing,alldressedup,Anne?”Davywantedtoknow.“Youlookbullyinthatdress.”

           Annehadcomedowntodinnerinanewdressofpalegreenmuslin...thefirstcolorshehadwornsinceMatthew’sdeath.Itbecameherperfectly,bringingoutallthedelicate,flower-liketintsofherfaceandtheglossandburnishofherhair.

           “Davy,howmanytimeshaveItoldyouthatyoumustn’tusethatword,”sherebuked.“I’mgoingtoEchoLodge.”

           “Takemewithyou,”entreatedDavy.

           “IwouldifIweredriving.ButI’mgoingtowalkandit’stoofarforyoureight-year-oldlegs.Besides,PaulisgoingwithmeandIfearyoudon’tenjoyyourselfinhiscompany.”

           “Oh,IlikePaullotsbetter’nIdid,”saidDavy,beginningtomakefearfulinroadsintohispudding.“SinceI’vegotprettygoodmyselfIdon’tmindhisbeinggoodersomuch.IfIcankeeponI’llcatchupwithhimsomeday,bothinlegsandgoodness.‘Sides,Paul’srealnicetoussecondprimerboysinschool.Hewon’tlettheotherbigboysmeddlewithusandheshowsuslotsofgames.”

           “HowcamePaultofallintothebrookatnoonhouryesterday?”askedAnne.“Imethimontheplayground,suchadrippingfigurethatIsenthimpromptlyhomeforclotheswithoutwaitingtofindoutwhathadhappened.”

           “Well,itwaspartlyazacksident,”explainedDavy.“Hestuckhisheadinonpurposebuttherestofhimfellinzacksidentally.WewasalldownatthebrookandPrillieRogersongotmadatPaulaboutsomething...she’sawfulmeanandhorridanyway,ifsheISpretty...