f being a Darrell--she was proud of the grand
old race from which she had sprung. But, when Sir Oswald had uttered
that last speech, she flamed out in fierce, violent passion, which
showed him she had at least the true Darrell spirit.

There were points in her favor, he admitted. She was magnificently
handsome--she had more courage and a higher spirit than fall even to the
lot of most men. She was a fearless horse-woman; indeed it was only
necessary for any pursuit to be dangerous and to require unlimited
courage for her instantly to undertake it.

Would the balance at last turn in her favor? Would her beauty, her
spirits, her daring, her courage, outweigh defective education,
defective manner, and want of worldly knowledge?

CHAPTER VI.

THE PROGRESS MADE BY THE PUPIL.

It was a beautiful afternoon in June. May, with its lilac and hawthorn,
had passed away; the roses were in fairest bloom, lilies looked like
great white stars; the fullness and beauty, the warmth and fragrance of
summer were on the face of the land, and everything living rejoiced in
it.

Pauline had begged that the daily readings might take place under the
great cedar tree on the lawn.

"If I must be bored by dry historical facts," she said, "let me at least
have the lights and shadows on the lawn to look at. The shadow of the
trees on the grass is beautiful beyond everything else. Oh, Miss
Hastings, why will people write dull histories? I like to fancy all
kings heroes, and all queens heroines. History leaves us no illusions."

"Still," replied the governess, "it teaches us plenty of what you love
so much--truth."

The beautiful face grew very serious and thoughtful.

"Why are so many truths disagreeable and sad? If I could rule, I would
have the world so bright, so fair and glad, every one so happy. I
cannot understand all this under-current of sorrow."

"Comte did not explain it, then, to your satisfaction?" said Miss
Hastings.

"Comte!" cried the girl, impatiently. "I am not obliged to believe all I
read! Once and for all, Miss Hastings, I do not believe in Comte or his
fellows. I only read what he wrote because people seemed to think it
clever to have done so. You know--you must know--that I believe in our
great Father. Who could look round on this lovely world and not do so?"

Miss Hastings felt more hopeful of the girl then than she had ever felt
before. Such strange, wild theories had fallen at times from her lips
that i