"If she had been a good one, she would have been true," I replied.
"I think," said Lance, musingly, "that in all this world there is nothing so horrible as a bad—a really bad or wicked woman! They seem to me much worse than men, just as a good woman is better than a man could ever be—is little less than an angel.
"Do you know," he continued, his voice trembling with emotion, "I did not understand how good a woman could be! My wife, Frances, is quite an angel. When I see her in the morning, her fair face so fresh and pure, kneeling down to say her prayers, I feel quite unworthy of her; when I see the rapt, earnest expression of her face, as we sit side by side in church, I long to be like her! She is one of the gentlest and sweetest of women; there is no one like her!"
"I am heartily glad that you are so happy, my dearest Lance," I said.
He continued: "I know that my talking does not bore you; you are too true a friend; it eases my heart, for it is always full of her. You do not know how good she is! Why, John, the soul of a good woman is clear and transparent, like a deep, clear lake; and in it one sees such beautiful things. When my Frances speaks to a little child there comes into her voice a beautiful tenderness—a ring of such clear music, that I say to myself it is more like the voice of an angel than of a woman; it is just the same when she speaks to any one in sorrow or sickness. The strange thing to me is this: that though she is so good herself, so pure and innocent, she has such profound compassion for the fallen and the miserable. At Vale Royal, only a few months ago, there was one of those unfortunate cases. A poor servant-girl—a very pretty and nice girl, too, she was—was turned out of her mistress' house in the cold of a winter's night; her boxes and wages were put in the street, and she was told to go to the work-house. She almost went mad with despair and shame. Frances would go to the rescue, and I honestly believe that through my wife's charity and goodness that unhappy girl will be restored to her place in the world, or that, at least, she will not go, as she would otherwise have done, to the bad. I thought that a most beautiful trait in her character."
"So it was," I replied, liking my dear old friend all the better for his great love for his wife.
"She is always the same," he continued, "full of charity and tenderness for the poor. You could not think how much they love her. All around Vale Royal she is worshiped. I am a very fortunate man, John."
"You are indeed," I replied.
He went on:
"I always had my ideal. I have known many. None ever reached my standard but Frances, and she is my ideal come to life—the reality found, fair, sweet, and true, a blonde, queenly woman. I should think that very few men meet and marry their ideal as I have met and married mine. Ah, there is the avenue that leads to the old manor-house! Who could have thought that I should ever be master of a manor-house, John? Neither that nor the handsome income belonging to it would be of any use without Frances. It is Frances who makes the world to me."