apple trees were all in bloom;
the air was redolent of mariets. The white lambs were in the meadows;
the leaves were springing on the trees; the birds singing.

"It is like a new life, John," said the happy young fellow by my side;
then, quite unable to keep his thoughts or his words long away from her,
he continued: "Frances will be so pleased to see you; we have talked of
nothing else for a week."

"I am afraid that she will be disappointed when she sees me, Lance."

"No, indeed," he replied, heartily. "You look better than you did when
you went to America, John--you look younger, less haggard, less worn.
Perhaps you have found some comfort?"

"Not of the kind you mean, Lance," I answered, "and I never shall."

"Ah," he said, musingly, "what mischief one bad woman can make! And she
was a bad woman, this false love of yours, John."

"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