" "And, if you want an additional inducement to do so, I can tell you there's no one —not even his mother—whom he loves so well as you. ” “Do you mean,” Courtlaw asked, “that from now to the end of the six months you do not wish to see us—any of us?” Her eyes were a little dim again. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. She shook her head. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. 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. "Ruth?" Silence for a moment.
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