“I’ll try,” promised Anne.

“Do you think I’m wrong in my upper story?” asked Paul, as if his very existence depended on her reply.

“Goodness, no, Paul,” exclaimed Anne in amazement.  “Certainly you’re not.  What put such an idea into your head?”

“Mary Joe . . . but she didn’t know I heard her.  Mrs. Peter Sloane’s hired girl, Veronica, came to see Mary Joe last evening and I heard them talking in the kitchen as I was going through the hall.  I heard Mary Joe say, ‘Dat Paul, he is de queeres’ leetle boy.  He talks dat queer.  I tink dere’s someting wrong in his upper story.’  I couldn’t sleep last night for ever so long, thinking of it, and wondering if Mary Joe was right.  I couldn’t bear to ask Grandma about it somehow, but I made up my mind I’d ask you.  I’m so glad you think I’m all right in my upper story.”

“Of course you are.  Mary Joe is a silly, ignorant girl, and you are never to worry about anything she says,” said Anne indignantly, secretly resolving to give Mrs. Irving a discreet hint as to the advisability of restraining Mary Joe’s tongue.

“Well, that’s a weight off my mind,” said Paul.  “I’m perfectly happy now, teacher, thanks to you.  It wouldn’t be nice to have something wrong in your upper story, would it, teacher?  I suppose the reason Mary Joe imagines I have is because I tell her what I think about things sometimes.”

“It is a rather dangerous practice,” admitted Anne, out of the depths of her own experience.

“Well, by and by I’ll tell you the thoughts I told Mary Joe and you can see for yourself if there’s anything queer in them,” said Paul, “but I’ll wait till it begins to get dark.  That is the time I ache to tell people things, and when nobody else is handy I just have to tell Mary Joe.  But after this I won’t, if it makes her imagine I’m wrong in my upper story.  I’ll just ache and bear it.”

“And if the ache gets too bad you can come up to Green Gables and tell me your thoughts,” suggested Anne, with all the gravity that endeared her to children, who so dearly love to be taken seriously.

“Yes, I will.  But I hope Davy won’t be there when I go because he makes faces at me.  I don’t mind very much because he is such a little boy and I am quite a big one, but still it is not pleasant to have faces made at you.  And Davy makes such terrible ones.  Sometimes I am frightened he will never get his face straightened out again.  He makes them at me in church when I ought to be thinking of sacred things.  Dora likes me though, and I like her, but not so well as I did before she told Minnie May Barry that she meant to marry me when I grew up.  I may marry somebody when I grow up but I’m far too young to be thinking of it yet, don’t you think, teacher?”

“Rather young,” agreed teacher.