The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. 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. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. It was time to leave America.
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