The sun had set when I reached Hastings, and Miss Brightman's house. Miss Brightman, who seemed to grow less strong day by day, which I was grieved to hear, was in her room lying down. Annabel sat at the front drawing-room window in the twilight. She started up at my entrance, full of surprise and apprehension. "Oh, Charles! Has anything happened? Is mamma worse?" "No, indeed; your mamma is very much better," said I cheerfully. "I have taken a run down for the pleasure of seeing you, Annabel." She still looked uneasy. I remembered the dreadful tidings I had brought the last time I came to Hastings. No doubt she was thinking of it, too, poor girl. "Take a seat, Charles," she said. "Aunt Lucy will soon be down." I drew a chair opposite to her, and talked for a little time on indifferent topics. The twilight shades grew deeper, passers-by more indistinct, the sea less bright and shimmering. Silence stole over us--a sweet silence all too conscious, all too fleeting. Annabel suddenly rose, stood at the window, and made some slight remark about a little boat that was nearing the pier. "Annabel," I whispered, as I rose and stood by her, "you do not know what I have really come down for." "No," she answered, with hesitation. "When I last saw you at your own home, you may remember that you were in very great trouble. I asked you to share it with me, but you would not do so." She began to tremble, and became agitated, and I passed my arm round her waist. "My darling, I now know all." Her heart beat violently as I held her. Her hand shook nervously in mine. "You cannot know all!" she cried piteously. "I know all; more than you do. Mrs. Brightman was worse after you left, and Hatch sent for me. She and Mr. Close have told me the whole truth." Annabel would have shrunk away, in the full tide of shame that swept over her, and a low moan broke from her lips. "Nay, my dear, instead of shrinking from me, you must come nearer to me--for ever. My home must be yours now." She did not break away from me, and stood pale and trembling, her hands clasped, her emotion strong. "It cannot, must not be, Charles." "Hush, my love. It _can_ be--and shall be." "Charles," she said, her very lips trembling, "weigh well what you are saying. Do not suffer the--affection--I must speak fully--the implied engagement that was between us, ere this unhappiness came to my knowledge and yours--do not suffer it to bind you now. It is a fearful disgrace to attach to my poor mother, and it is reflected upon me." "Were your father living, Annabel, should you say the disgrace was also reflected upon _him_?" "Oh no, no. I could not do so. My good father! honourable and honoured. Never upon him." I laughed a little at her want of logic.