The first sharpness of the edge worn off, Anna grew cross. She did not see why every one should be blaming her. What had so sadly prostrated herself was the shame of having to appear before the court; to stand in it and give her evidence. The excitement, the shame, combined with the terrifying illness of her father, brought on, as Hester told her, through her, had sent her into a wild state of contrition and alarm. Little wonder that she wished herself dead! The mood passed away as the days went on, and Anna became tolerably herself again. When Friends called at the house to inquire after or to see her father, she ran and hid herself in her room, fearful lest a lecture on those field recreations might be delivered to her gratuitously. She shunned Patience, too, as much as she could. Patience had grown cold and silent; and Anna rather liked the change.

She sat for the most part in her father's room, never moving from his bedside, unless disturbed from it; never speaking; eating only when food was placed before her. Anna was in grievous fear lest a public reprimand should be in store for her, delivered at meeting on First Day: but she saw no reason why every one should continue to be cross with her at home.

She happened to be alone with her father when he first recovered consciousness. Some fifteen days had elapsed since the trial. But for the fact of her being with him, a difficulty might have been experienced to get her there. She dreaded his anger, his reproach, more than anything. So long as he lay without his senses, knowing her not, so long was she content to sit, watching. She was seated by the bedside in her usual listless attitude, head and eyes cast down, when her father's hand, not the one affected, was suddenly lifted and laid upon hers, which rested on the counterpane. Startled, Anna turned her gaze upon him, and she saw that his intellects were restored. With a suppressed cry of dismay she would have flown away, but he clasped his fingers round hers.

"Anna!"

She sank down on her knees, shaking as if with ague, and buried her face in the clothes. Samuel Lynn stretched forth his hand and put it on her head.

"Thou art my own child, Anna; thy mother left thee to me for good and for ill; and I will stand by thee in thy sorrow."

She burst into a storm of hysterical tears. He let it have its course; he drew her wet face to his and kissed it; he talked to her soothingly, never speaking a single word of reproach; and Anna overcame her fear and her sobs. She knelt down by the bed still, and let her cheek rest on the counterpane.

"It has nearly killed me," he murmured, after a while. "But I pray for life: I will struggle hard to live, that thee mayst have one protector. Friends and foes may cast reproach to thee, but I will not."

"Why should they cast reproach to me, father?" returned Anna, with a little spice of resentment. "I have not harmed them."

"No, child; thee hast not; only thyself. I will help thee to bear the reproach. Thou art my own child."

"But there's nothing for them to reproach me with," she reiterated, her face buried deeper in the counterpane. "It was not pleasant to stand there; but it is over. And they need not reflect upon me for it."

"What is over? To stand where?" he asked.

"At the Guildhall, on the trial."

"It is not that that people will reproach thee with, Anna. It was not a nice thing for thee; but that, in itself, brings no reproach."

Anna lifted her head wonderingly. "What does, then?" she uttered.

He did not answer. He only closed his eyes, a deep groan bursting from the very depths of his heart. It came into Anna's mind that he must be thinking of her previous acquaintance with Herbert Dare; of her stolen meetings in the field by twilight.

"Oh, father, don't thee be angry with me!" she implored, the tears streaming from her eyes. "It was no harm; it was not indeed. Thee mightst have been present always, for all the harm there was, and I wish thee hadst been. Why should thee think anger of it? There was no more harm in my talking with him now and then in the field, than there was in my talking with him in Margaret Ashley's drawing-room."

Something in the simple words, in the tone, in the manner altogether, caused the Quaker's heart to leap within him. Had he been making a molehill into a mountain? Surely, yes! But what else he would have said or done, what questions asked, cannot be known, for they were interrupted by a visit from William Halliburton. Anna stole away.

William was full of hearty congratulation on the visible improvement—the, so far, restoration to health. The Quaker murmured some half-inarticulate words, indicating something to the effect that he might not have been ill, but for taking up a worse view of the case than, as he believed now, it really merited.

William leaned over him; a glad look in his eye; a glad sound in his low voice.

"My mother has been telling Patience so to-day. She, my mother, is convinced now that very exaggerated blame was cast upon Anna. It was foolish of her, of course, to fall into the habit of running to the field; but the locking out might have happened to anyone. My mother told me this not half an hour ago. She has seen and talked to Anna frequently this last day or two, and has drawn her own positive deductions. My mother is vexed with herself for having fallen into the popular condemnation."

"Ay!" uttered Samuel Lynn. "There is condemnation abroad, then? I thought there was."

"People will come to their senses in good time," was William's answer. "Never doubt it."

The Quaker raised his feeble hand, and laid it upon William's. "The Ashleys—have they blamed her?"

"I fear they have," was the only reply he could make, in his strict truth.

"Then, William, thee go to them. Go to them now, and set them right."

He was already going, for he was engaged to the Ashleys that evening. Between Henry Ashley, the men at East's, and his own studies, which he would not wholly neglect, William's evenings had a tolerably busy time of it. He had assumed Samuel Lynn's place in the manufactory by Mr. Ashley's orders, head of all things, under the master. Cyril ground his teeth at this; he looked upon it as a slight to himself; but Cyril had no power to alter it.

William found Mr. and Mrs. Ashley alone. Mary was out. He sat with them for a few minutes, talking of Anna, and then rose to go to Henry. "How is he this evening?" he inquired.

"Ill and very fractious," was Mr. Ashley's reply. "William, you have great influence over him. I wish you could persuade him to give way less. He is not ill enough, so far as we can see, to keep his room; but we cannot get him out of it."

Henry was in one of his depressed moods, excessively dispirited and irritable. "Oh! so you have come!" he burst forth as William entered. "I should be ashamed to neglect a sick fellow as you neglect me. If I were well and strong, and you ill, you would find it different."

"I know I am late," acknowledged William. "Samuel Lynn took up a little of my time; and I have been sitting some minutes in the drawing-room."

"Of course!" was the fractious answer. "Any one before me."

"Samuel Lynn is a great deal better," continued William. "His mind is restored."

Henry received the news ungraciously, making no rejoinder; but his side was twitching with pain. "How is she?" he asked. "Is the shame fretting out her life?"

"Not at all. She is very well. As to shame—as you call it—I believe she has not taken much to herself."

"It will kill her: you'll see. The sooner the better for her I should say."

William sat down on the edge of the sofa, on which the invalid was lying. "Henry, I would set you right upon a point, if I thought it would be expedient to do so. You do go into fits of excitement so great, that it is dangerous to speak."

"Tell out anything you have to tell. Tell me, if you choose, that the house is on fire, and I must be pitched out of window to escape it. It would make no impression upon me. My fits of excitement have passed away with Anna Lynn."

"My news relates to Anna."

"What if it does? She has passed away for me."

"Helstonleigh, in its usual hasty fashion of jumping to conclusions, has jumped to a false one," continued William. "There have been no grounds for the great blame cast to Anna; except in the minds of a charitable public."

"A fact?" asked Henry, after a pause.

"There's not a shade of doubt about it."

He received the answer with equanimity; it may be said, with apathy. And turning on his couch, he drew the cover over him, repeating the words previously spoken: "She has passed away for me."