The lonely life brought before her all the anxieties that had been stifled for the time by the agitations of the escape.  Again and again she lived over the scene in the ruins.  Again and again she recalled those two strange appearances, and shivering at the thought of the anniversary that was approaching in another month, still felt sometimes that, alive or dead, Peregrine’s would be a home face, and framed to herself imaginary scenes in which she addressed him, and demanded whether he could not rest in his unhallowed grave.  What would Bishop Ken say?  Sometimes even she recollected the strange theory which had made him crave execution from the late King, seven years, yes, a little more than seven years ago, and marvel whether at that critical epoch he had indeed between life and death been snatched away to his native land of faery.  Imagination might well run riot in the solitary, unoccupied condition to which she was reduced; and she also brooded much over the fragments of doubtful news which reached her.

Something was said of all loyal clergy being expelled and persecuted, and this of course suggested those sufferings of the clergy during the Commonwealth, of which she had often heard, making her very anxious about her uncle, and earnestly long for wings to fly to him.  The Archfields too!  Had Charles returned, and did that secret press upon him as it did upon her?  Did Lucy think herself utterly forgotten and cast aside, receiving no word or message from her friend?  “Perhaps,” thought Anne, “they fancy me sailing about at Court in silks and satins, jewels and curls, and forgetting them all, as I remember Lucy said I should when she first heard that I was going to Whitehall.  Nay, and I even took pleasure in the picture of myself so decked out, though I never, never meant to forget her.  Foolish, worse than foolish, that I was!  And to think that I might now be safe and happy with good Lady Russell, near my uncle and all of them.  I could almost laugh to think how my fine notions of making my fortune have ended in sitting here, neglected, forgotten, banished, almost in rags!  I suppose it was all self-seeking, and that I must take it meekly as no more than I deserve.  But oh, how different! how different is this captivity!  ’Oh that I had wings like a dove, for then would I flee away, and be at rest.’  Swallow, swallow! you are sweeping through the air.  Would that my spirit could fly like you! if only for one glimpse to tell me what they are doing.  Ah! there’s some one coming down this unfrequented walk, where I thought myself safe.  A young gentleman!  I must rise and go as quietly as I can before he sees me.  Nay,” as the action following the impulse, she was gathering up her work, “’tis an old abbe with him! no fear!  Abbe?  Nay, ’tis liker to an English clergyman!  Can a banished one have strayed hither?  The younger man is in mourning.  Could it be?  No graver, older, more manly—­Oh!”