Compared with what might and ought to have been, his prospects now were, in many respects, gloomy to look forward to; but he had fully taken breathing time before breaking to her news which, he greatly feared, might be testing and grievously disappointing. But it would be unmanly to trifle longer with Annot, or dally with their mutual fate. Yet how was he to preface the most unwelcome intelligence that he was no longer--indeed, never was--laird of that stately mansion and splendid estate, with all its fields, wood, and waters? How he dreaded the humiliating revelation--yet why so, if she loved him? Taking an opportunity when they were alone, and the two other girls, escorted by Elliot, had gone for a 'spin' on horseback, he drew her tenderly towards him, with one arm round her slender waist and one hand clasping hers, which still had his engagement ring on a baby-like finger, while gazing earnestly down into her sunny eyes, which were uplifted to his with something of inquiry in them, he said: 'I have news, darling--terrible news to reveal to you at last.' 'News?' she repeated in a whisper. 'Of a nature, perhaps, beyond your imagining,' said he in a voice that became low and husky despite its tenderness. 'What do you mean, Roland? You frighten me, dearest!' He pressed her closer to him, and she felt that his hands were trembling violently. 'Annot, I have a hundred times and more heard you say that you loved me for myself, and would continue to love me were I poor--poor as Job himself.' 'Of course I have often said so, and I do love you; but why do you ask this question now? What has happened? Why are you so strange?' she asked, changing colour and looking decidedly restless in eye and manner. 'Are you not well? How cold your poor hands are, and how they tremble!' She drooped her fairy-like head, with all its wealth of shining golden hair, upon his shoulder, and looked upward keenly, if tenderly, into his downcast eyes. 'Has any new calamity occurred to distress you?' 'Nothing that is new--to me.' 'Why, then-- 'It is this. I am not Lindsay of Earlshaugh--not the owner of the estate I mean. I am poor, poor, Annot, yet not penniless; I have my old allowance and my pay--but this beautiful estate is not mine.' 'Not yours?' 'No--not a foot of it--not a tree--not a stone!' Her lips were firmly set, and the rose-leaf tint in her delicate cheeks died away. 'Whose, then, is it?' 'My father--weakly--my father----' 'To whom did he leave the property?' she asked, lifting her head from his shoulder and speaking with a sharpness he did not then notice; 'is it as I have heard whispered?' 'To my stepmother--yes. You knew of that--you suspected it, my darling?' he added, with a sudden access of hope and joy--hope in her unselfishness and purity of love. She made no immediate reply. 'Is this unjust will tenable?' she asked, after a time.