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. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. ” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. A hollow feeling opened up inside her, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. She led him up the long hall solemnly. She advanced, stabbing at him. “I hope that it has not done any harm. "You're right Jack," he said, after a pause, during which he contemplated the picture with the most fixed attention: "this must have been my father!" "No doubt of it," answered Sheppard; "only compare it with Winny's drawing, and you'll find they're as like as two peas in a pod. "Hoddy, Hoddy!… No, no! This is my father!" warned Ruth. “I have been bearing this—for your sake.
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