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. "Mother—dear mother! Once again, I beseech you to listen to me. But one changes the style of one's clothes yearly. All he will say is that she said so—as if anyone could believe a word the girl said. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. "However, some one must look after the jail; and they're all gone but me. “You must play for us again sometime. “They are full of the usual foolish stories. The day had become suddenly overcast. . ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. “It’s my fault. " "Those terms were a third of my estate," observed Trenchard bitterly.
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