en when
suggestions from her would have been useful, she never made them. She
was mistress of the house, but she allowed the utmost freedom and
liberty to this girl, who never thanked her, and who never asked her for
a single favor.

Sir Oswald admired this grace and sweetness in his wife more than he had
ever admired anything else. Certainly, contrasted with Pauline's blunt,
abrupt frankness, these pretty, bland, suave ways shone to advantage. He
saw that his wife did her best to conciliate the girl, that she was
always kind and gracious to her. He saw, also, that Pauline never
responded; that nothing ever moved her from the proud, defiant attitude
she had from the first assumed.

He said to himself that he could only hope; in time things must alter;
his wife's caressing ways must win Pauline over, and then they would be
good friends.

So he comforted himself, and the edge of a dark precipice was for a time
covered with flowers.

The autumn and winter passed away, spring-tide opened fair and
beautiful, and Miss Hastings watched her pupil with daily increasing
anxiety. Pauline never spoke of her disappointment; she bore herself as
though it had never happened, her pride never once giving way; but, for
all that, the governess saw that her whole character and disposition was
becoming warped. She watched Pauline in fear. If circumstances had been
propitious to her, if Sir Oswald would but have trusted her, would but
have had more patience with her, would but have awaited the sure result
of a little more knowledge and experience, she would have developed into
a noble and magnificent woman, she would have been one of the grandest
Darrells that ever reigned at the old Court. But Sir Oswald had not
trusted her; he had not been willing to await the result of patient
training; he had been impetuous and hasty, and, though Pauline was too
proud to own it, the disappointment preyed upon her until it completely
changed her. It was all the deeper and more concentrated because she
made no sign.

This girl, noble of soul, grand of nature, sensitive, proud, and
impulsive, gave her whole life to one idea--her disappointment and the
vengeance due to it; the very grandeur of her virtues helped to
intensify her faults; the very strength of her character seemed to
deepen and darken the idea over which she brooded incessantly by night
and by day. She was bent on vengeance.

CHAPTER XXVII.

SIR OSWALD'S DOUBTS.

It was the