“I believe the gentleman had written a book,” resumed Mrs. Willows: “a story, or a novel, or something of that kind. Celia went on about it in her childish way. It was the most beautiful story that ever was written, and so on, she said. My poor pa forbade me reading novels, and I had to give my solemn promise that no book from the circulating-library should ever enter this house, before he would allow me to walk out with Celia Mayfield. When she began to read the book, she didn’t know anything about the author; but while she was reading it, he happened to go into the shop, and she went on about the story to him as she had gone on about it to me; and I suppose his vanity was flattered by her childish talk, for there never was such a childish creature about books and flowers and birds. He told her that he had written the book; and then he wrote to her, first a note, which was delivered by his servant, who hung about the library until he got the opportunity of giving it to Celia unknown to any one; and then letters, which were addressed to the post-office: and she showed me the letters. I said, ‘Celia, these are not letters which a prudent young woman ought to receive.’ But it was no use talking to her. The first letter that was sent to the post-office lay there nearly a fortnight before she went to fetch it; and all that time she went on about it to me when we were out walking; for he had told her he should write, and address his letter to the post-office. Should she fetch it, or shouldn’t she? I said, ‘If you take my advice, Celia, you will have nothing to do with it. People who mean honourably don’t send their letters to post-offices.’ But one evening, when we were coming home from a walk, we passed through the street where the office is; and she let go my arm all of a sudden, ran into the shop, and came out with a letter in her hand. As soon as we turned the corner into a bye-lane, where there was nobody about, she kissed the letter, and went on like a mad thing, and then she read it to me; and she was as proud and happy as if a king had written to her.” “God help her, poor innocent soul!” murmured Eustace, tenderly.