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. The crowd dispersed in different directions, and most fortunately a heavy shower coming on, put them altogether to flight. Does it?” “I think it does. “He was in holy orders, and we were to have been married when he got a living. She shut the door behind her. I want you to be clear what you’re really and truly up to, anyhow. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. “I suppose you could at least tune it for us if you know how to play. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. “But what are you going to do?” asked Hetty.
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