“Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I can’t allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing fold it neatly¹ and place it on the chair. I haven’t any use at all for little girls who aren’t neat.”

 

“I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn’t think about my clothes at all,” said Anne. “I’ll fold them nicely tonight. They always made us do that at the asylum². Half the time, though, I’d forget, I’d be in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things.”

 

“You’ll have to remember a little better if you stay here,” admonished³ Marilla. “There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get into bed.”

 

“I never say any prayers,” announced Anne.

 

Marilla looked horrified⁴ astonishment⁵.

 

“Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don’t you know who God is, Anne?”

 

“‘God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,’” responded Anne promptly⁶ and glibly⁷.

 

Marilla looked rather relieved.

 

“So you do know something then, thank goodness! You’re not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?”

 

“Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There’s something splendid about some of the words. ‘Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.’ Isn’t that grand? It has such a roll to it—just like a big organ playing. You couldn’t quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn’t it?”

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