The forces that moved in the wind, in the waving broomsedge, and in the call of the whip-poor-will, stirred in his pulses as they stirred in the objects around him.

That fugitive attraction of the body, which Nature has shielded at the cost of finer attributes, leaped upon him like a presence that had waited in earth and sky.

Loftier aspirations vanished before it.

Not his philosophy but the accident of a woman's face worked for destiny.
"I never knew just how it was," she answered slowly as if weighing her words, "but your uncle wasn't one of our folks, you know.

He bought the place the year before the war broke out, and there was always some mystery about him and about the life he led--never speaking to anybody if he could help it, always keeping himself shut up when he could.