Chapter 19

The Monday morning, to which Fan had been looking forward with
considerable apprehension, brought no new and frightful experience: she
was not caught up and instantly plunged fathoms down beyond her depth
into that great cold ocean of knowledge; on the contrary, Miss Churton
merely took her for a not unpleasant ramble along the margin--that old
familiar margin where she had been accustomed to stray and dabble and
paddle in the safe shallows. Miss Churton was only making herself
acquainted with her pupil's mind, finding out what roots of knowledge
already existed there on which to graft new branches; and we know that
the time Fan had spent in the Board School had not been wasted. Miss
Churton was not shocked nor disappointed as her mother had been: the girl
had made some progress, and what she had learnt had not been wholly
forgotten.

If this easy going over old ground was a relief to Fan, she experienced
another and even a greater relief in her teacher's manner towards her.
She was gentle, patient, unruffled, explaining things so clearly, so
forcibly, so fully, as they had never been explained before, so that
learning became almost a delight; but with it all there was not the
slightest approach to that strange tenderness in speech and manner which
Fan had expected and had greatly feared. Feared, because she felt now
that she could not have resisted it; and how strange it seemed that her
finest quality, her best virtue, had become in this instance her greatest
enemy, and had to be fought against, just as some fight against the evil
that is in them.

But Miss Churton never changed. That first morning when she had, so to
speak, looked over her pupil's mind, seeking to discover her natural
aptitudes, was a type of all the succeeding days when they were together
at their studies. The girl's fears were quickly allayed; while Mrs.
Churton more slowly and little by little got over her unjust suspicions.
And the result was that with the exception of little petulant or
passionate outbreaks on the part of Mr. Churton, mere tempests in a tea-
cup, a novel and very welcome peace reigned at Wood End House. Between
mother and daughter there was only one quarrel more--the last battle
fought at the end of a long war. For a few days after that evening when
Constance had accompanied her to church, the poor woman almost succeeded
in persuading herself that a long-desired change was coming, that the
quiet curate, who had all learning, ancient and modern, at his finger-
ends, had succeeded at last in touching her daughter's hard heart, and in
at least partially lifting the scales that darkened her eyes. For he was
always seeking her out, conversing with her, and it was evident to her
mind that he had set himself to bring