Is there anything else to tell? Well, yes; there is just one further item of information that may interest some at least of my readers. I remember remarking, in the course of my narrative, that toward the latter part of my acquaintance with Miss Merrivale--dating particularly from the capture and recapture of the ship at the treasure island--that very charming young lady's demeanour toward me underwent a certain subtle, indefinable, puzzling, but exceedingly agreeable change; and after we had left China and were on our homeward voyage--when, in short, I had leisure to give a proper amount of thought and attention to so important a matter--I determined to ascertain what it meant. Now, this is not a love story, so I will not enter into the particulars of how I first of all fell to questioning myself as to _why_ this change of manner should have proved so agreeable to me; nor will I describe the mental process by which I quickly arrived at the conclusion that it was because Agnes Merrivale was, beyond all question, the sweetest and most lovable, as well as the most charming and lovely woman it had ever been my good fortune to encounter. Nor will I attempt to describe the devious methods and the complicated stratagems by which--having arrived at this conclusion--I painfully sought to obtain some slight inkling or clue to the sweet girl's sentiments toward myself. Let it suffice to say that they were all signally, _miserably_, unsuccessful. _You_, my dear reader, would of course have managed infinitely better; I am well aware of that. But remember, if you please, that I was only a plain, unpolished sailor; a man who, maybe, could handle a ship fairly well, take care of her in a gale of wind, and navigate her successfully from port to port, but who had until now had no experience of women and their ways. Moreover, I would have cut off my right hand rather than have said or done anything to offend one of the sex worthy the name of woman. So, for the first time in my life, I was fairly nonplussed and unhappy; knowing full well what I wanted, but not knowing what steps I ought to take in order to insure to myself a fair chance of obtaining it. Such a state of mind, however, is not likely to be long tolerated by a sailor; my good sense came to my aid, and whispered that if my love loved me, I had only to give her the opportunity to say so, and all would be well. So one night--how well I remember it! it was pitch-dark, and we were just clear of the Straits of Sunda, rolling merrily along before a fresh easterly breeze under every rag that we could pack upon the ship--I got the dear girl to myself for a while upon the poop, and told her in simple, sailorly language exactly what were my feelings and hopes. We were promenading the poop together, arm in arm, while I spoke, and she heard me to the end without a word. Then she stopped, and placing both her hands in mine, said, with an unmistakable quiver of emotion in her voice--