“Well, my poor girl, you needn't study Greek and archaeology and logarithms unless you feel inclined. But if you ever take a fancy for such subjects it will always be a comfort to know that you may dive down as deeply as you like without knocking your head on the bottom. I mean that you will never get to know too much for Miss Churton, who knows more than all the professors put together.” “Do you think she will be nice?” said Fan, wandering from the subject. “Nice! That depends on your own taste. I fancy I can draw a picture of what she is like. A tall thin lady of an uncertain age. Thin across here”--placing her hands on her own shoulders. “And very flat here,”--touching her own well-developed bust. “But I should like to know about her face.” “Should you? I'm afraid that it is not a very bright smiling face, that it is rather yellow in colour, that the hair is rather dead-looking, of the door-mat tint, and smoothed flat down. The eyes are dim, no doubt, from much reading, and the nose long, straddled with a pair of spectacles, and red at the end from dyspepsia and defective circulation. But never mind, Fan, you needn't look so cast down about it. Miss Churton will be your teacher, and I wish you joy, but you will have plenty of time for play, and other things to think of besides study. When your lessons are over you can chase butterflies and gather flowers if you like. Luckily Miss Churton has not included botany and entomology in the long list of her acquirements.” Fan did not quite understand all this; her mistress was always mocking at something, she knew; she only asked if it was really in the country where she would live. Miss Starbrow took up the letter and read the remaining portion, which contained a description of Wood End House--the Churtons' residence--and its surroundings. The house, the writer said, was small, but pretty and comfortable; and there was a nice garden and a large orchard with fruit in abundance. There were also some fields and meadows, her own property, let to neighbouring farmers. East of the house, and within fifteen minutes walk, was the old picturesque village of Eyethorne, sheltered by a range of grassy hills; also within a few minutes' walk began the extensive Eyethorne woods, celebrated for their beauty. Nothing could have been more charming than this, and the picture of garden and orchard, green meadows and hills and shady woods, almost reconciled Fan to the prospect of spending a whole year in the society of an aged and probably ailing couple, and a lady of uncertain age, deeply learned and of unprepossessing appearance--for she could not rid her mind of the imaginary portrait drawn by Mary.