"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. Miss Tranter was not inquisitive, but she had rather a liking for Tom, and his melancholy surliness was not lost upon her.
"What's the matter with you?" she asked sharply. "You're like a bear with a sore head this morning!"
He looked at her with sombre eyes in which the flame of strongly restrained passions feverishly smouldered.
"I don't know what's the matter with me," he answered slowly. "Last night I was happy. This morning I am wretched!"
"For no cause?"
"For no cause that I know of,"—and he heaved a sudden sigh. "It is the dark spirit—the warning of an evil hour!"
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Miss Tranter.
He was silent. His mouth compressed itself into a petulant line, like that of a chidden child ready to cry.