"Among the sailors and merchants in Germany and the Low Countries, as I have heard," said Anne. "From the monster Luther himself, for ought I know."
"Did Luther believe in allowing people to read the Bible?" asked Jack.
Anne put down her work, and coming to the side of Jack's bed, she kneeled down and put her arm round him.
"Dear Jack, what has got into you?" she asked. "Who has been putting these notions into your head?"
"What notions?" asked Jack.
"These notions about reading the Bible, and this curiosity about heretics and about the new doctrines. Oh, brother dear, don't meddle with poison! Don't touch pitch lest you be defiled! Think of your immortal soul—of your friends and your father. Be warned in time—" Anne laid down her head on the bed, and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.
"Dear Anne, don't cry so!" said Jack, wondering at his sister's emotion. "What have I done to make you so unhappy? I have no notion of running after the new doctrines, and even if I did wish to read the Scriptures, why should that trouble you?"
"Because—because I know what comes of it!" said Anne, lifting her colorless face, and speaking in a low tone. "Jack, I had a friend in the convent—the dearest friend I ever had. She was one of the young sisters, and taught me to embroider and to write, and though she was of good family, and I but a baker's daughter, she took a liking for me, and I loved her with my whole heart."
"Well!" said Jack, breathlessly, as Anne paused, for there was something in his sister's tone which awed him.
"She went home for a few weeks," continued Anne. "When she came back she brought with her a certain book. It professed to be part of the Holy Scripture—Heaven knows what it was—but Agnes read in it every spare moment. She would have had me study the book with her, and I did read a few chapters. Then I grew frightened and would read no more, and I begged Agnes to burn the book, but she would not—ah, woe is me! She would not."