"Then your thoughts must be very unpleasant ones—tell them to me. Nothing sends away unpleasant ideas so soon as communicating them to others."
But Miss Darrell had evidently not heard the words; she had relapsed into deep meditation, and Miss Hastings thought it better to leave her alone. Suddenly Pauline looked up.
"Miss Hastings," she said, "I suppose a solemn promise, solemnly given, can never be broken?"
"It never should be broken," replied the governess. "Instances have been known where people have preferred death to breaking such a promise."
"Yes, such deaths have been known. I should imagine," commented Pauline, with a gleam of light on her face, "that no Darrell ever broke his or her word when it had been solemnly given."
"I should imagine not," said Miss Hastings.
But she had no clew to her pupil's musings or to the reason of her question.
So the noon-day shadows crept on. Purple-winged butterflies coquetted with the flowers, resting on the golden breasts of the white lilies, and on the crimson leaves of the rose; busy bees murmured over the rich clove carnations; the birds sang sweet, jubilant songs, and a gentle breeze stirred faintly the leaves on the trees. For once Pauline Darrell seemed blind to the warm, sweet summer beauty; it lay unheeded before her.
Miss Hastings saw Sir Oswald coming toward them; a murmur of surprise came from her lips.
"Pauline," she said, "look at Sir Oswald—how ill he seems. I am afraid something is wrong."