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.”

The avenue was a superb one.  It consisted of tall chestnut trees standing four deep.  I have seen nothing finer.  Just now the flowers were all in bloom, the bees and butterflies had been all drawn there by their odor; the birds were flitting in and out, making grand discoveries in the great boughs; the ground was a carpet of flowers, white daisies and golden buttercups mixed with wild hyacinths and graceful blue-bells.  We drove for some few minutes over this carpet, and then the old gray manor-house stood before us, the prettiest picture ever seen on a summer’s day.  The whole front of the house was covered with flowers, and the ivy grew green and thick; it climbed to the very top of the towers.

“Famous ivy,” said Lance.  “People come to Dutton to look at the ivy.”

“I do not wonder at it,” I said.

I was somewhat surprised at the style o the house.  I had not expected anything so grand, so beautiful.

“We shall have time for a cigar and a stroll before dinner,” said Lance, as he threw the reins to the groom; “but you must see Frances first, John—­you must see her.”

But one of the servants told us that Mrs. Fleming was in the drawing-room, engaged with Lady Ledbitter.  Lance’s face fell.