In the course of another fortnight I had seen sufficient of Frances Evans Henri， to enable me to form a more definite opinion of her character.I found her possessed in a somewhatremarkable degree of at least two good points， viz.， perseveranceand a sense of duty； I found she was really capable of applying to study， of contending with difficulties.At first I offered her the same help which I had always found it necessary to confer on the others； I began with unloosing for her each knotty point， but I soon discovered that such help was regarded by my new pupil as degrading； she recoiled from it with a certain proud impatience.Hereupon I appointed her long lessons， and left her to solve alone any perplexities they might present.She set to the task with serious ardour， and having quickly accomplished one labour， eagerly demanded more.So much for her perseverance； as to her sense of duty， it evinced itself thus： she liked to learn， but hated to teach； her progress as a pupil depended upon herself， and I saw that on herself she could calculate with certainty； her success as a teacher rested partly， perhaps chiefly， upon the will of others； it cost her a most painful effort to enter into conflict with this foreign will， to endeavour to bend it into subjection to her own； for in what regarded people in general the action of her will was impeded by many scruples； it was as unembarrassed as strong where her own affairs were concerned， and to it she could at any time subject her inclination， if that inclination went counter to her convictions of right； yet when called upon to wrestle with the propensities， the habits， the faults of others， of children especially， who are deaf toreason， and， for the most part， insensate to persuasion， her will sometimes almost refused to act； then came in the sense of duty， and forced the reluctant will into operation.A wasteful expense of energy and labour was frequently the consequence； Frances toiled for and with her pupils like a drudge， but it was long ere her conscientious exertions were rewarded by anything like docility on their part， because they saw that they had power over her， inasmuch as by resisting her painful attempts to convince， persuade， control—by forcing her to the employment of coercive measures—they could inflict upon her exquisite suffering.Human beings—human children especially—seldom deny themselves the pleasure of exercising a power which they are conscious of possessing， even though that power consist only in a capacity to make others wretched； a pupil whose sensations are duller than those of his instructor， while his nerves are tougher and his bodily strength perhaps greater， has an immense advantage over that instructor， and he will generally use it relentlessly， because the very young， very healthy， very thoughtless， know neither how to sympathize nor how to spare.Frances， I fear， suffered much； a continual weight seemed to oppress her spirits； I have said she did not live in the house， and whether in her own abode， wherever that might be， she wore the same preoccupied， unsmiling， sorrowfully resolved air that always shaded her features under the roof of Mdlle Reuter， I could not tell.
One day I gave， as a devoir， the trite little anecdote of Alfredtending cakes in the herdsman’s hut， to be related with amplifications.A singular affair most of the pupils made of it； brevity was what they had chiefly studied； the majority of the narratives were perfectly unintelligible； those of Sylvie and LéonieLedru alone pretended to anything like sense and connection.Eulalie， indeed， had hit， upon a clever expedient for at once ensuring accuracy and saving trouble； she had obtained access somehow to an abridged history of England， and had copied the anecdote out fair.I wrote on the margin of her production “Stupid and deceitful，” and then tore it down the middle.
Last in the pile of single-leaved devoirs， I found one of severalsheets， neatly written out and stitched together； I knew the hand， and scarcely needed the evidence of the signature “Frances Evans Henri” to confirm my conjecture as to the writer’s identity.
Night was my usual time for correcting devoirs， and my own room the usual scene of such task—task most onerous hitherto； and it seemed strange to me to feel rising within me an incipient sense of interest， as I snuffed the candle and addressed myself to the perusal of the poor teacher’s manuscript.
“Now，” thought I， “I shall see a glimpse of what she really is； Ishall get an idea of the nature and extent of her powers； not that she can be expected to express herself well in a foreign tongue， but still， if she has any mind， here will be a reflection of it.”
The narrative commenced by a description of a Saxon peasant’s hut， situated within the confines of a great， leafless， winter forest； it represented an evening in December； flakes of snow were falling， and the herdsman foretold a heavy storm； he summoned his wife to aid him in collecting their flock， roaming far away on the pastoral banks of the Thone； he warns her that it will be late ere they return.The good woman is reluctant to quit her occupation of baking cakes for the evening meal； but acknowledging the primary importance of securing the herds and flocks， she puts on her sheep-skin mantle； and， addressing astranger who rests half reclined on a bed of rushes near the hearth， bids him mind the bread till her return.
