The light of the next day's sun, beaming with all the heat and effulgence of full morning, bathed moor and upland in a wide shower of gold, when Miss Tranter, standing on the threshold of her dwelling, and shading her eyes with one hand from the dazzling radiance of the skies, watched a man's tall figure disappear down the rough and precipitous road which led from the higher hills to the seashore.

All her night's lodgers had left her save one--and he was still soundly sleeping.

Bill Bush had risen as early as five and stolen away,--Matt Peke had broken his fast with a cup of hot milk and a hunch of dry bread, and shouldering his basket, had started for Crowcombe, where he had several customers for his herbal wares.
"Take care o' the old gaffer I brought along wi' me," had been his parting recommendation to the hostess of the "Trusty Man." "Tell 'im I've left a bottle o' yerb wine in the bar for 'im.

M'appen ye might find an odd job or two about th' 'ouse an' garden for 'im, just for lettin' 'im rest a while." Miss Tranter had nodded curtly in response to this suggestion, but had promised nothing.
The last to depart from the inn was Tom o' the Gleam.

Tom had risen in what he called his "dark mood." He had eaten no breakfast, and he scarcely spoke at all as he took up his stout ash stick and prepared to fare forth upon his way.