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