They were rude sons and daughters of the hills who inhabited this
mountain home two centuries ago. The country around them was alive
with ghostly legend. They had seen the lights dance across Deer Garth
Ghyll, and had heard the wail that came from Clark's Loup. They were
not above trembling at the mention of these mysteries when the moon
was flying across a darksome sky, when the wind moaned about the
house, and they were gathered around the ingle nook. They had few
channels of communication with the great world without. The pack-horse
pedler was their swiftest newsman; the pedler on foot was their weekly
budget. Five miles along the pack-horse road to the north stood their
market town of Gaskarth, where they took their wool or the cloth they
had woven from it. From the top of Lauvellen they could see the white
sails of the ships that floated down the broad Solway. These were all
but their only glimpses of the world beyond their mountains. It was a
mysterious and fearsome world.

There was, however, one link that connected the people of Wythburn
with the world outside. To the north of the city and the mere there
lived a family of sheep farmers who were known as the Rays of
Shoulthwaite Moss. The family consisted of husband and wife and two
sons. The head of the house, Angus Ray, came to the district early in
life from the extreme Cumbrian border. He was hardly less than a giant
in stature. He had limbs of great length, and muscles like the gnarled
heads of a beech. Upon settling at Wythburn, he speedily acquired
property of various kinds, and in the course of a few years he was the
largest owner of sheep on the country side. Certainly, fortune favored
Angus Ray, and not least noticeably when in due course he looked about
him for a wife.

Mary Ray did not seem to have many qualities in common with her