“I’m really very sorry. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. 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. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight. Around him were all the evidences of plenty. . Another picture slid across her vision. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. Martha was quite right.
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