years.

"I thought it would be a treat. I brought home a few pounds," said the
younger, smiling again at his brother's hungry delight. John cut into
the case, loaded his pipe, and lighted it with a contented sign. Then he
handed the rest back to its owner.

"No, no," said Martin. "I'll just have one fill, that's all. I brought
this for you. 'T will atone for the poor sport. The creel I shall leave
with you now, for I'm away to Fingle Bridge and Prestonbury. We'll meet
at nightfall."

Thereupon he set off down the valley, his mind full of early British
encampments, while John sat and smoked and pondered upon his future. He
built no castles in the air, but a solid country house of red brick,
destined to stand in its own grounds near Chagford, and to have a snug
game-cover or two about it, with a few good acres of arable land
bordering on forest. Roots meant cover for partridges in John Grimbal's
mind; beech and oak in autumn represented desirable food for pheasants;
and corn, once garnered and out of the way, left stubble for all manner
of game.

Meantime, whilst he reviewed his future with his eyes on a blue cloud of
tobacco smoke, Martin passed Phoebe Lyddon farther down the valley. Him
she recognised as a stranger; but he, with his eyes engaged in no more
than unconscious guarding of his footsteps, his mind buried in the
fascinating problems of early British castramentation, did not look at
her or mark a sorrowful young face still stained with tears.

Into the gorge Phoebe had wandered after reading her sweetheart's