"I verily wonder whether thou art my own daughter," said the master baker slowly, "or whether my child died in the convent yonder, and some devil entered into her body! Surely, thy mother and I never had such a monster! I will not curse thee, for the sake of him who has gone; but get thee from my sight, or I cannot answer for what I may do! Get to thy chamber—dost hear me?" he repeated, stamping his foot. "Yes, go, daughter," said the old priest. "You do but enrage your father the more by your carriage, which I must say is neither maidenly nor Christian. Get you to your chamber, and repent if you can, for, in sooth, you have been guilty of a great sin. My poor, dear friend!" he added, as Anne withdrew. "Let us forbear harsh words. They can do no good. Let us kneel down and pray, not only for our dear young brother, but for this misguided girl. I do trust all may yet be well. The bishop is a kind-hearted man, and averse to all harsh measures, and I have some interest with him which I shall not spare to use. I hope all may yet be well." CHAPTER XXI. ANNE. Anne retired to her room and locked herself in, a precaution which she might have spared, for nobody came near her except one of the maids to bring her some food. The girl, though she did not speak, looked at Anne with an expression of wonder and reproach, which went to her heart. "Where is my father, Dorothy?" she asked, feeling as if she must say something. "Your father has gone out with the old priest who was here last night, Mistress Anne," was the short reply. And Dorothy, who was usually disposed for a gossip at the smallest encouragement, retired and shut the door without another word. Wicked and base as was the action she had committed, in itself, Anne was very much to be pitied. Her mind had for weeks been utterly unsettled. As Jack had said, she was, in her heart, almost entirely convinced that her brother was right, and that she was wrong. In spite of herself, as it were, she could not help recalling all that she had heard and read with Agnes Harland, which was a great deal more than she had told Jack. In spite of herself, when she was listening to the harangues of the preaching friars against heresy, her mind would persist in bringing up and arranging arguments on the other side. When she repeated, as she did daily, her long litany of invocations to the saints and the Virgin Mary, something kept constantly telling her that it was a useless labor, and making such suggestions as these: "How do you know that these saints can hear you? They were, and are, but finite beings like yourself, and cannot possibly be present in all places and at all times at once." These were but a few of the distractions which beset her night and day, destroying her peace of mind, humbling her pride, and undermining her faith in those things wherein she had made her boast.