He had depressing visions of Pamela and Mr Seale Hayne walking hand in hand into adulthood and then, arm in arm down the aisle of the village church or possibly Exeter Cathedral, moving side by side into the blissful future which should have been his, while he rode, alone and inconsolable, about the Post Stone valley. ‘Why?’ people would ask, when by middle age, Edward John remained a solitary bachelor. ‘Why don’t ’e wed?’ ‘’Tis ’cos ’is heart were broke when he were a young lad,’ they would reply.It was autumn now and the days were shorter. Edward John had left the higher farm after lunch, saddled Tosca and ridden up through the rising ground onto the eastern extremity of The Tops. Here the land levelled and formed a plateau, perfect grazing for the Bayliss sheep which ranged for miles, cropping the wiry, resilient grass. On the western side the steep lane, which climbed from the higher farm, ended in a gate. Near it stood the byre used in the lambing season and well stocked at this time of year with straw bedding ready for the ewes and their offspring.
