before it could form itself into expression it was stilled and
forbidden, by circumstances, to assert itself.

Sad, depressed Lost Hollow! Over it loomed darkly the mountain whose
peak was so often shrouded in clouds. The people loved the hills and
the shadows; they glided like wan ghosts up and down The Way or took to
the more sheltered trails. When they were sober they were gentle,
harmless folk, but when whiskey overpowered them the men became dully
brutal, the women wretchedly slavish, and the children what one might
expect such sad little creatures to become! Lacking in intellect,
misshapen and timid, they rustled among the underbrush like frightened
animals; peered forth like uncanny gnomes, and ate and slept how and as
they could.

After the Civil War these people became "poor whites" and were ground
between the nether millstone of their more prosperous neighbours and
that of the blacks, until they sank to the lowest level. Their voices
were hushed and forgotten; their former estate blotted out in their
present degradation, and just then Sandy Morley and Cynthia Walden were
born and some high and just God seemed to strengthen their childish
voices; vouchsafe to them a vision and give their Inheritance charge
over them.

Marriage form was not largely in vogue among the Lost Hollow people; it
was too expensive and unnecessary. The rector of the small church at
The Forge looked upon the hill people as altogether beyond and below
the need of any attention of his, and was genuinely surprised and
annoyed when one of them called upon him for service. He had not come
to The Forge from an ardour to save souls; he had been placed there
because he had not been wanted elsewhere, and he was rebellious and
bitter. Occasionally he was summoned to the mountain fastnesses for a
burial or wedding, but he showed his disapproval of such interferences
with his dignified rights, and was not imposed upon often. But Martin
Morley, Sandy's father, had married Sandy's mother. She was a Forge
girl who believed in Martin and loved him, so he took her boldly to the
parsonage, paid for the service the rector performed, and went his way.

There was one happy year following in the Morley cabin under Lost
Mountain. Martin worked as he never had before; the hut was mended
without and made homelike within. The little wife sang at her tasks
and inspired Martin to a degree of fervour that brought him to the
conclusion that he must g