The woods of Barracombe stretched upwards to the skyline of the ridge
behind the house, and were intersected by winding paths, bordered
by hardy fuchsias and delicate ferns. A rushing stream dropped from
height to height on its rocky course, and ended picturesquely and
usefully in a waterfall close to the village, where it turned an old
mill-wheel before disappearing into the Youle.

If the Squire of Barracombe overlooked from his terrace garden
the inhabitants of the village and the tell-tale doorway of the
much-frequented inn on the high-road below--his tenants in the valley
and on the hillside were privileged in turn to observe the goings-in
and comings-out of their beloved landlord almost as intimately; nor
did they often tire of discussing his movements, his doings, and even
his intentions.

His monotonous life provided small cause for gossip or speculation;
but when the opportunity arose, it was eagerly seized.

In the failing light of a February afternoon a group of labourers
assembled before the hospitably open door of the Crewys Arms.

"Him baint been London ways vor uppard of vivdeen year, tu my zurtain
knowledge," said the old road-mender, jerking his empty pewter upwards
in the direction of the terrace, where Sir Timothy's solid dark form
could be discerned pacing up and down before his white house.

"Tis vur a ligacy. You may depend on't. 'Twas vur a ligacy last time,"
said a brawny ploughman.

"Volk doan't git ligacies every day," said the road-mender,