It is pitiable to think of the thousands of pure, innocent women at home, accepting as husbands the returned gentlemen from India, where these have left a number of their own black-and-tan pickaninnies, or have been shorn of their strength, in the laps of many Delilahs among the native women. CHAPTER XIV. I had a good home, and everything pleasant, but I was alone. Some one has asked the question: “What is home without a mother?” Mine was: “What is home without a wife?” I had sadly failed in my first and only effort to get a partner of my joys, a queen for my home, to my sorrow and extreme chagrin and mortification. I had no ambition to encounter another angry mother, though she had her rights, as I believed I had mine. Burnt fingers make us chary of handling fire. I had been in a number of happy homes, though excluded as I was, and had seen a number of noble wives and mothers, who shed a divine light and influence not only in their family circles, but on all around them. Mr. Percy’s description of his mother and of his betrothed, gave me a high ideal of the real and true woman. He never spoke of woman but with respect, and I might say with reverence. The influence of his mother had so formed him, that he could no more have injured a woman than he could have hurt his own soul. I think the opinion a man has of woman is a true index of his character. I have never heard any one speak disparagingly of woman, but I have asked myself, “What must he think of his own mother or sister?” I had frequently met a young Eurasian woman. I always like the word woman, for God made women; ladies are a society product, and are somewhat like artificial flowers, painted and produced to order. There are to be sure real ladies, but first of all they must be true women, and as I have always preferred flowers of nature’s own making, so I have a preference for a real woman, yet I will have to admit that even the best of us may be deceived by appearances. I once saw some roses painted so true to nature that butterflies came and lit upon them, and I could imagine them saying to each other, “Fooled again!” So we imperfect sighted mortals may be fooled with what we think are roses.