self for
his nervous terrors, he presently rose from his bed, and struck a match
from the box which Miss Tranter had thoughtfully left beside him, and
lit his candle. Something had been placed on his pillow, and curiosity
moved him to examine it. He looked,--but saw nothing save a mere screw
of soiled newspaper. He took it up wonderingly. It was heavy,--and
opening it he found it full of pennies, halfpennies, and one odd
sixpence. A scrap of writing accompanied this collection, roughly
pencilled thus:--"To help you along the road. From friends at the Trusty
Man. Good luck!"

For a moment he stood inert, fingering the humble coins,--for a moment
he could hardly realise that these rough men of doubtful character and
calling, with whom he had passed one evening, were actually humane
enough to feel pity for his age, and sympathy for his seeming loneliness
and poverty, and that they had sufficient heart and generosity to
deprive themselves of money in order to help one whom they judged to be
in greater need;--then the pure intention and honest kindness of the
little "surprise" gift came upon him all at once, and he was not ashamed
to feel his eyes full of tears.

"God forgive me!" he murmured--"God forgive me that I ever judged the
poor by the rich!"

With an almost reverential tenderness, he folded the paper and coins
together, and put the little packet carefully away, determining never to
part with it.

"For its value outweighs every banknote I ever handled!" he said--"And I
am prouder of it than of all my millions!"

CHAPTER VIII

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 w