Father William had set out only the day before his return, on a visit to London, and there was too much reason to fear that by the connivance of friends, he might escape to Germany. But here was a notable prey to be taken at once, and he was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. He commended Anne for her faithfulness, though he gave her less praise and paid less attention to the rest of her confession than she thought she deserved. However, he told her she had taken the best means to get rid of her trouble of mind, and confirmed her in the idea that it had all been owing to her having wickedly concealed her brother's errors. A watch was at once set upon Jack's movements, and he was apprehended, as we have seen. Anne returned to her home with a strange feeling of exultation. She had done the deed. She had sacrificed what was nearest to her, and shown plainly that nothing was so dear to her as the cause of the Church and true religion. Surely, surely all must now be right with her. There would be an end forever of these haunting doubts, these wild temptations to go to Jack, own herself convinced, and beg for instruction. This feeling lasted her all day and till she saw her brother finally carried away to a fate which she knew too well, and heard her father's voice commanding her to her chamber. Thus she went to her room. Lo! Her enemy was there awaiting her, armed with tenfold power. She had done the deed. She had betrayed her brother to shame and death, she had incurred her father's hatred and curse, which was withheld only for the sake of his son; and all for what? Was she any nearer to the quiet of mind she had so ardently desired? She did not find it so. Instead thereof, her doubts returned with tenfold power. They were no longer doubts, they were certainties—demonstrated truths. She did not reason upon them; she could not. She felt, rather than knew, that it was Jack who was the martyr for the truth, and she was the Judas who had betrayed him. She had denied her Lord, belied her own conscience, and sacrificed her family to a monstrous lie. What would she not have given to recall the events of the last few hours? But it was too late—forever too late; and the thought filled her with inexpressible anguish and despair. Anne rose at last from the floor, where she had thrown herself at the foot of the crucifix, and in the sheer restlessness of misery wandered into Jack's room. There were all his treasures; his strings of birds' eggs, his shells and other foreign curiosities derived from traders and sailors, his Latin books and exercises. The blackbird and squirrel he had brought from the country were hopping about their cages, and seemed to wonder why they were neglected. Anne took down the cages and ministered to the wants of the occupants. The action, simple as it was, seemed to bring her some relief, and as the blackbird tuned up its mellow whistle, she leaned her head beside the cage, and wept long and bitterly.