“It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. 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. You will only make me hurt you the more. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. ” “Oh, Drummond’s dinner!” she repeated. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass.
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