"Good heavens, Cuckoo! you didn't tell her that I hope?" "Not in so many words, Master Cyrus. But bless you," added Mrs. Gilfin significantly, "women in these matters ain't fools, sir." I was rather perturbed over this, as it was not impossible that the maidenly modesty of Gertrude might take offence, if she guessed my undeclared sentiments. And in any case, the slightest hint of such an attitude might embarrass our conversation. By this time, it was useless to deny that I was fathoms deep in love. I suppose I had brooded so long over the beauty of the pictured face, that when the original proved to be even more attractive, the egg of love was promptly hatched into the actual chick From the moment my eyes met those of Gertrude, and soul read soul, I adored her with a headstrong passion, which I should have scouted in another man. If ever there was an impulsive being who aptly illustrated Marlow's dictum, as to love at first sight, I was that uncommon individual. For I take it that sudden passions of this unthinking sort, are unusual in an age, when lovers--a most unsuitable name for such cautious creatures--wish to inspect the lady's check-book before proposing. But I need not have worried my mind over any possible embarrassment on Miss Monk's part. She was more composed than I was when we next met; and that was in the village store, whither I had gone to procure some stationery. It was necessary to write Cannington and advise him of my actual whereabouts, if only to keep him out of the way. I did not wish him to come down and spoil my wooing, as an inconvenient third. Besides, as a feather-headed boy, he might be indiscreet with regard to the Mootley murder, and I wished to supply all information on that matter, by word of mouth. It was the sole excuse, which I had for seeking the society of my goddess, and I did not wish it to be staled by other people's repetitions. While I was purchasing blotting-paper, ink and pens and stationery from a genial old woman in a mob-cap, Miss Monk entered the shop. She was dressed as she had been when I last saw her, but this time carried a dog-whip in place of a sunshade. Gamboling round her was a large ungainly Newfoundland year-old puppy, who answered to the odd name of Puddles. At least that was his pet name, as Miss Monk afterwards told me that he was registered as Ion, after the hero of Judge Talfourd's famous play. Puddles lounged against me with exuberant friendliness, and had to be corrected with the whip. When the commotion subsided, his mistress found time to speak and apologize, looking handsomer than ever, with the color of exercise in her cheeks. "You mustn't mind the dog," she said gravely, "he won't bite you." "I hope not," I replied with equal gravity, "I am extremely timid, you know." She smiled at this. "I think I would trust you in a moment of danger, Mr. Vance. But to be friends with me, you must be friends with Puddles." "I quite understand. Love me, love my dog."