"Because—because I know what comes of it!" said Anne, lifting her colorless face, and speaking in a low tone. "Jack, I had a friend in the convent—the dearest friend I ever had. She was one of the young sisters, and taught me to embroider and to write, and though she was of good family, and I but a baker's daughter, she took a liking for me, and I loved her with my whole heart." "Well!" said Jack, breathlessly, as Anne paused, for there was something in his sister's tone which awed him. "She went home for a few weeks," continued Anne. "When she came back she brought with her a certain book. It professed to be part of the Holy Scripture—Heaven knows what it was—but Agnes read in it every spare moment. She would have had me study the book with her, and I did read a few chapters. Then I grew frightened and would read no more, and I begged Agnes to burn the book, but she would not—ah, woe is me! She would not." "Well!" said Jack again, as Anne made another pause. "The poison entered into her soul," continued Anne, speaking in a still lower tone, and shivering as with horror. "She became infected, and she spoke profane and slighting words of the saints, and of our Lady herself, even declaring that there was no warrant in Scripture for asking her intercession. More she spoke that I cannot repeat—that I dare not think of. Oh, would that she had never spoken to me of the matter! Would it had not been my lot—" "Anne, you did not betray her!" cried Jack indignantly. "You did not betray your friend?" "What could I do?" murmured Anne, her face once more hidden. "I must needs go to confession, and answer the questions which were asked of me. I was her confidant, and the priest knew that, and questioned me shrewdly. I was obliged to tell, and—oh, woe is me! Woe is me! Why was I ever born? She was called before the prioress and the priest, all the sisters standing by, and there she avowed her heresy, and spoke out boldly. She was a modest, shamefaced girl in general, but she was fearless enough then. Never, never shall I forget her face and her voice. They dragged her away at last, and as she was going, I fell at her feet—I could not help it—and implored her forgiveness." "She looked down upon me with her sweet eyes full of tears. 'I forgive you, Anne, if there is aught to forgive,' said she. 'You could not help yourself, I suppose. These are the days spoken of by our Lord, when the brother shall betray the brother to death; but whosoever shall endure to the end shall be saved. Pray for me, dear Anne, as I shall for thee.'" "Then they drew me away with bitter words of reproach, and I knew no more till I found myself in my cell, with kind old Mother Paula watching over me." "And what became of Agnes?" asked Jack.