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. As they 56 approached the manor, she was permitted to peep her head outside the chariot's front window. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. “I’m just off, aunt,” said Ann Veronica. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring.
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