’ I said. " Silence. Go to it; and the best of luck!" He went out. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. 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. "We shall all be murdered. “What’s that for?” He said. ” “But how?” “I poured him out some port wine, and I said—let me see—oh, ‘You are going to be a grandfather!’” “Yes. “I don’t want you to do it, to go on talking to me.
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