“Is that all the truth?” said Sir Philip sternly.  “What brought them there—­either of them?”

“Mr. Archfield came to bring me a pattern of sarcenet to match for poor young Madam in London.”

No doubt Sir Philip recollected the petulant anger that this had been forgotten, but he was hardly appeased.  “And the other fellow?  Why, he was brawling with my nephew Sedley about you the day before!”

“I do not think she was to blame there,” said Dr. Woodford.  “The unhappy youth was set against marrying Mistress Browning, and had talked wildly to my sister and me about wedding my niece.”

“But why should she run away as if he had the plague, and set the foolish lads to fight?”

“Sir, I must tell you,” Anne owned, “he had beset me, and talked so desperately that I was afraid of what he might do in that lonely place and at such an hour in the morning.  I hoped he had not seen me.”

“Umph!” said Sir Philip, much as if he thought a silly girl’s imagination had caused all the mischief.

“When did he thus speak to you, Anne?” asked her uncle, not unkindly.

“At the inn at Portsmouth, sir,” said Anne.  “He came while you were with Mr. Stanbury and the rest, and wanted me to marry him and flee to France, or I know not where, or at any rate marry him secretly so as to save him from poor Mistress Browning.  I could not choose but fear and avoid him, but oh!  I would have faced him ten times over rather than have brought this on—­us all.  And now what shall I do?  He, Mr. Archfield, when I saw him in France, said as long as no one was suspected, it would only give more pain to say what I knew, but that if suspicion fell on any one—­” and her voice died away.

“He could not say otherwise,” returned Sir Philip, with a groan.

“And now what shall I do? what shall I do?” sighed the poor girl.  “I must speak truth.”

“I never bade you perjure yourself,” said Sir Philip sharply, but hiding his face in his hands, and groaning out, “Oh, my son! my son!”

Seeing that his distress so overcame poor Anne that she could scarcely contain herself, Dr. Woodford thought it best to take her from the room, promising to come again to her.  She could do nothing but lie on her bed and weep in a quiet heart-broken way.  Sir Philip’s anger seemed to fill up the measure, by throwing the guilt back upon her and rousing a bitter sense of injustice, and then she wept again at her cruel selfishness in blaming the broken-hearted old man.

She could hardly have come down to breakfast, so heavy were her limbs and so sick and faint did every movement render her, and she further bethought herself that the poor old father might not brook the sight of her under the circumstances.  It was a pang to hear little Philip prancing about the house, and when he had come to her to say his prayers, she sent him down with a message that she was not well enough to come downstairs, and that she wanted nothing, only to be quiet.