There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. 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. Shoving between them, she confronted the captain herself. He would be so disappointed. ‘Very well, then. Ennison?” “He spoke to me, thinking that I was you,” Anna answered. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle.
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