About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. " So saying, he unlocked the door and strode out of the room. “We’re going to be sensible. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. As for me, I look twice at it. It keeps dangling in front of my eyes. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. ” “It is for your good—your good only I am thinking,” he declared.
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