"Much better tell her, and get it over," spoke the Major. "I should, if I were Level. He is more careful of her than she deserves--silly chit!" Major Carlen and his cloak swung out again, the clerks came back, and the day and its duties went on. I wrote to Lord Level; giving him the substance of what the Major had heard, and telling him that I thought there could be little fear of Tom Heriot's venturing back to England. He could never be so reckless as to risk the danger. Dinner over, I started for Mrs. Brightman's, and was admitted by the butler, who told me, in answer to my inquiry, that his mistress had been ill all day and had not come down. Tea waited on the drawing-room table, but no one was in the room. Presently Annabel entered. "I am sorry you should have had the trouble to come, when perhaps you could not spare the time," she said. "Mamma is not well enough to see you." "I was not busy to-night, Annabel. Perry has just told me your mamma has not been down to-day. Is her illness anything more than would be caused by these bad headaches? Do you fear anything serious?" "Yes--no. I--I hope not." Her voice and manner were excessively subdued, as if she could scarcely speak from fear of breaking down. She turned to the table, evidently to avoid my notice, and busied herself with the teacups. "What is the matter, Annabel?" "Nothing," she faintly answered, though her tears were even then falling. But I knew that some great trouble must be upon her. "Is Mrs. Brightman vexed with you for having come up last night with that deed?" "No; oh no! I told mamma about it this morning, and she said I had done quite right to take it up, but that I ought to have gone in the carriage." "What, then, is causing you this grief?" "You cannot expect me to be in very good spirits as yet," she replied: which was a decided evasion. "There are times--when I feel--the loss----" She fairly broke down, and, sinking into a chair, cried bitterly and without concealment. I waited until she had become calmer. "Annabel, my dear, sorrow for your loss is not all that disturbs your peace to-night. What else is there?" "It is true that I have had something to vex me," she admitted after a pause. "But I cannot tell you about it." "It is a momentary trouble, I hope; one that will pass away----" "It will never pass away," she interrupted, with another burst of emotion. "It will be a weight and a grief upon me as long as life shall last. I almost wish I had died with my father, rather than have to live and bear it." I took her hands in mine, and spoke deliberately. "If it be so serious a trouble as that, I must know it, Annabel." "And if it were of a nature to be spoken of, you should know it. But it is not, and I can tell you nothing." "Could you speak of it to your father, were he still living?" "We should be compelled to speak of it, I fear. But----"