Their conversation was mostly about politics, and beyond her range; but
tonight it had a peculiar interest for her, for they had begun to speak
of the Mountain. She drew back a little, lest they should see she was in
hearing.
"The Mountain? The Mountain?" she heard Mr. Royall say. "Why, the
Mountain's a blot--that's what it is, sir, a blot. That scum up there
ought to have been run in long ago--and would have, if the people down
here hadn't been clean scared of them. The Mountain belongs to this
township, and it's North Dormer's fault if there's a gang of thieves
and outlaws living over there, in sight of us, defying the laws of their
country. Why, there ain't a sheriff or a tax-collector or a coroner'd
durst go up there. When they hear of trouble on the Mountain the
selectmen look the other way, and pass an appropriation to beautify the
town pump. The only man that ever goes up is the minister, and he goes
because they send down and get him whenever there's any of them dies.
They think a lot of Christian burial on the Mountain--but I never heard
of their having the minister up to marry them.
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