Certainly, Monday's looks were not his strong point. Black spots were
scattered at random over his yellow carcass, one of them, apparently,
blotting out an eye. His ears were in tatters, for Monday was never
successful in affairs of honour. But he possessed one talisman. He knew
that not all dogs could be handsome or eloquent or victorious, but that
every dog could love. Inside his homely hide beat the most affectionate,
loyal, faithful heart of any dog since dogs were; and something looked
out of his brown eyes that was nearer akin to a soul than any theologian
would allow. Everybody at Ingleside was fond of him, even Susan,
although his one unfortunate propensity of sneaking into the spare room
and going to sleep on the bed tried her affection sorely.

On this particular afternoon Rilla had no quarrel on hand with existing
conditions.

"Hasn't June been a delightful month?" she asked, looking dreamily afar
at the little quiet silvery clouds hanging so peacefully over Rainbow
Valley. "We've had such lovely times--and such lovely weather. It has
just been perfect every way."

"I don't half like that," said Miss Oliver, with a sigh. "It's ominous--
somehow. A perfect thing is a gift of the gods--a sort of compensation
for what is coming afterwards. I've seen that so often that I don't care
to hear people say they've had a perfect time. June has been delightful,
though."

"Of course, it hasn't been very exciting," said Rilla. "The only
exciting thing that has happened in the Glen for a year was old Miss
Mead fainting in Church. Sometimes I wish something dramatic would
happen once in a while."