“Let us pray that no serpent may enter therein,” I said.

“There is no fear, John,” he replied; “my Frances would be an antidote against all the serpents in the world.  We shall have a glorious drive home!  How do you like my carriage?”

It was perfect, so were the horses, so was the groom in his neat livery, so was the dogcart waiting for the luggage, so was the magnificent retriever that ran with the carriage.  What a drive it was!  Of all seasons, in all climes, give me an English spring.  The hedges were covered with white and pink hawthorn; the 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: