“My mother has prejudiced you against me, Fan. She imagines that if we were intimate and friendly together my influence would be injurious, that it would destroy the effect of the religious instruction she gives.” “I do not understand you,” said Fan, looking unmistakably puzzled. “No? And yet I thought it so plain. My mother has told you that I am not religious--in _her_ way, that is--that I am not a Christian. She does not know really; I do not go about telling people what I believe or disbelieve, and prefer to say nothing about religion for fear of hurting any person's feelings. But that is not her way, and through what she has said at the vicarage, and elsewhere about me I am now looked upon as one to be avoided. I see you are reading _The Pleasures of Hope_. Let me have it. Do you see this passage with pencil-marks against it, and all the words underscored? “Ah me! the laurel wreath that Murder rears, Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the nightshade round the sceptic head. “These words were marked for my benefit--this is what she thinks of me--her own daughter--because I cannot agree with her in everything she believes!” And here she flung the volume disdainfully on the grass. “When I agreed to be your teacher I never imagined that such things would have been put into your head. Her anxiety about your spiritual welfare made it seem right in her eyes to do so, I suppose. But I should not have harmed you, my dear girl, or interfered with your religion in any way; she might have given me that much credit. When she knew how lonely my life was, and how much your affection would have been to me, it was unkind of her to set you also against me from the first.” All this came as a complete surprise on her listener, who now for the first time began to understand the reason of the estrangement of mother and daughter. But Constance was allowed to finish her speech without interruption. She said more than she had meant to say, but her feelings had carried her away, and when she finished it was with a half-suppressed sob. “Dear Miss Churton, I am so sorry you are unhappy,” said Fan at length, taking her hand. “I did not know you were not a Christian, nor why it was that you and Mrs. Churton were always so cold to each other. But it would have made no difference if I had known, because--I am not religious.” Constance looked at her. “What do you mean by that, Fan?” she said. “It is my turn now, it seems, to say that I do not understand you.” The other hesitated; then she remembered the carpenter's words, and began a little doubtfully: