But though he visited Sir Rowland Trenchard's seat, Ashton Hall, he could gain no tidings of him, or of his uncle, Sir Rowland, who, it seems, has left the country. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged.
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