n ourselves, Mr. Dickens, was not David, good human
soul! now and again a wee bit bored by the immaculate Agnes? She made
him an excellent wife, I am sure. SHE never ordered oysters by the
barrel, unopened. It would, on any day, have been safe to ask Traddles
home to dinner; in fact, Sophie and the whole rose-garden might have
accompanied him, Agnes would have been equal to the occasion. The dinner
would have been perfectly cooked and served, and Agnes' sweet smile
would have pervaded the meal. But AFTER the dinner, when David and
Traddles sat smoking alone, while from the drawing-room drifted down the
notes of high-class, elevating music, played by the saintly Agnes, did
they never, glancing covertly towards the empty chair between them, see
the laughing, curl-framed face of a very foolish little woman--one of
those foolish little women that a wise man thanks God for making--and
wish, in spite of all, that it were flesh and blood, not shadow?

Oh, you foolish wise folk, who would remodel human nature! Cannot you
see how great is the work given unto childish hands? Think you that in
well-ordered housekeeping and high-class conversation lies the whole
making of a man? Foolish Dora, fashioned by clever old magician Nature,
who knows that weakness and helplessness are as a talisman calling forth
strength and tenderness in man, trouble yourself not unduly about those
oysters nor the underdone mutton, little woman. Good plain cooks at
twenty pounds a year will see to these things for us; and, now and
then, when a windfall comes our way, we will dine together at a
moderate-priced restaurant where these things are managed even better.
Your work, Dear, is to teach us gentleness and kindliness. Lay your
curls here, child. It is from such as you that we learn wisdom. Foolish
wise folk sneer at you; foolish wise folk would pull up the useless
lilies, the needless roses, from the garden, would plant in their places
only serviceable wholesome cabbage. But the Gardener knowing better,
plants the silly short-lived flowers; foolish wise folk, asking for what
purpose.

As for Agnes, Mr. Dickens, do you know what she always makes me think
of? You will not mind my saying?--the woman one reads about. Frankly,
I don't believe in her. I do not refer to Agnes in particular, but the
woman of whom she is a type, the faultless woman we read of. Women have
many faults, but, thank God, they have one redeeming virtue--they are
none of them faultle