It stands against the west like a barrier. It seems
to Cynthia Ware that nothing which went beyond this barrier ever came
back again. One by one the days passed over it, and in splendid
apotheosis, in purple and crimson and gold, they were received into the
heavens and returned no more. She beheld love go hence, and many a hope.
Even Lost Creek itself, meandering for miles between the ranges, suddenly
sinks into the earth, tunnels an unknown channel beneath the mountain,
and is never seen again."
And, finally, after a tremendous self-sacrifice, when all appears lost and
her future looks colorless and hopeless, she fears that the years of her
life are "like the floating leaves drifting down Lost Creek, valueless,
purposeless, and vaguely vanishing in the mountains." All of the stories
are by no means so tragically sad as this one, but all are overshadowed by
the mountains. Among the best of the novels, _Down the Ravine_ and _The
Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountain_ may be mentioned. Craddock shows
marked ability in delineating this primitive type of level-headed,
independent people, and she tells their story with ease and vigor.
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