"Then, my dear, you can speak of it to me. From henceforth you must look upon me as in his place; your protector; your best friend: one who will share your cares, perhaps more closely than he could have done; who will strive to soothe them with a love that could not have been his. In a short time, Annabel, I shall ask you to give me the legal right to be and do this." "It can never be," she replied, lifting her tearful eyes to mine. I looked at her with an amused smile. I knew she loved me--and what other obstacle could exist? Mrs. Brightman might oppose it at first, but I did not despair of winning her over in the end. "Not quite yet, I know," I answered her. "In a few months' time." "Charles, you misunderstand me. I said it could never be. _Never._" "I certainly do not understand that. Had your father lived, it would have been; and I do not say this without reason for the assertion. I believe that he would have given you to me, Annabel, heartily, with all his good will." "Yes, that may be true; I think you are right; but----" "But what, then? One word, Annabel: the objection would not surely come from your heart?" "No, it would not," she softly answered, blushing deeply. "Please do not speak of these things." "I did not intend to speak of them so soon. But I wish to remind you that I do possess a right to share your troubles, of whatever nature those troubles may be. Come, my darling, tell me your grief." "Indeed I cannot," she answered, "and you know I am not one to refuse anything from caprice. Let me go, Charles; I must make the tea." I did let her go; but I bent over her first, without warning, and kissed her fervently. "Oh, Charles!" "As an earnest of a brother's love and care for you, Annabel, if you object for the present to the other," I whispered. "Yes, yes; be a brother to me," she returned, with strange yearning. "No other tie can now be ours." "My love, it _shall_ be." She rang for the urn, which Perry brought in, and then sat down to the table. I placed myself opposite to her and drew the dry toast towards me. "Mrs. Brightman prefers this, I believe; shall I prepare some for her?" Annabel did not answer, and I looked up. She was struggling with her tears again. "I fear mamma is not well enough to eat," she said, in a stifled voice. "Annabel!" I suddenly exclaimed, a light flashing upon me: "your mother is worse than you have confessed: it is her illness which is causing you this pain." Far greater than any that had gone before was the storm of emotion that shook her now. I rose in consternation and approached her, and she buried her face in her hands. It was very singular. Annabel Brightman was calm, sensible, open as the day. She seemed to-night to have borrowed another character. Suddenly she rose, and nervously putting my hand aside, walked once or twice up and down the room, evidently to obtain calmness. Then she dried her eyes, and sat down again to the tea-tray. I confess that I looked on in amazement.