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. Not fit to be dust on your boots. Suddenly he burst into wild laughter; but equally as suddenly something strangled the sound in his throat. "Not as I loved mine. I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris. Excuse me an instant while I dismiss this person. ” “Above all, no one except I can know what you are. —You've your answer, Blueskin," he added, pushing that individual, who seemed unwilling to depart, towards the door; "it's useless to urge the matter further. Under happier circumstances nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have offered you a home with your sister.
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