Mary Brent was judged to be the neatest hand at a lace or cut-work falling band, or a lady's stiffened coif and pinners, of any one in Bridgewater; and thanks partly to Cicely's active patronage and recommendation, she found plenty to do. She was able to put in order her house, which had once been a good one, and to help pay her way by letting lodgings now and then to the better sort of sea-faring men. Peter and Peggy both went to school, and Master Lucas promised to take Peter for an apprentice so soon as he should be a little older, while Peggy was learning under Madam Barbara to do the fine sorts of needlework which would insure her a superior place whenever she should wish to go to service. Moreover Mary had received letters and money from her son in foreign parts more than once—not a great deal, to be sure, but enough to be a help to her and (what she valued still more) to show that her Davy was not the scapegrace that his former masters would have made him out. In short, as Master Lucas had once prophesied, the sun was beginning to shine on her side of the hedge, and she could well afford to dispense with the charity which had been so grudgingly dealt out to her at the convent gate. There was one person with whom Jack did not "get on" at all, and that was his sister Anne. Jack had always loved his sister dearly, it must be confessed on slight encouragement, for Anne's system of religious belief led her to look on all natural family affection with suspicion, as a thing savoring of "the world," and a hindrance to that ascetic sanctity to which she aspired. For a time during Jack's long and severe illness she had seemed to thaw toward him, and to be disposed to give him her confidence, especially after the conversation relating to Agnes Harland; and Jack had looked forward with affectionate impatience to seeing her again. But he found her, to his great disappointment, frozen up ten times stiffer and colder than ever. At first he was unwilling to accept this state of things, and accused himself of jealousy and unkindness, but he soon came to see that it was no fancy of his own. Anne avoided him as much as possible: she would not sit down in the room alone with him, and seemed actually afraid of him. Jack felt very much distressed, for aside from his strong natural affection toward his sister, his heart was full of the first love and joy of a genuine religious experience; and he would fain have been on good terms with all the world. He made many attempts to put matters on a better footing; but without success. Anne seemed to shrink into her shell more and more as Jack tried to draw her out of it. At last, one day finding her alone in her room, he entered it and closed the door behind him. "Now, Anne dear, let us have it out," said he. "Do not let us go on in this uncomfortable way any longer. Tell me at once and plainly, what have I done to offend you and make you so cold to me?"