leading downhill?"

"The very same," Hollister continued. "I see you know the place. And
in this cabin there was a shelf with a row of books, and each one had
written on the flyleaf, 'Doris Cleveland--Her Book.'"

"My poor books," she murmured. "I thought the rats had torn them to
bits long ago."

"No. Except for a few nibbles at the binding. Perhaps," Hollister said
whimsically, "the rats knew that some day a man would need those books
to keep him from going crazy, alone there in those quiet hills. They
were good books, and they would give his mind something to do besides
brooding over past ills and an empty future."

"They did that for you?" she asked.

"Yes. They were all the company I had for two months. I often wondered
who Doris Cleveland was and why she left her books to the rats--and
was thankful that she did. So you lived up there?"

"Yes. It was there I had my last look at the sun shining on the hills.
I daresay the most vivid pictures I have in my mind are made up of
things there. Why, I can see every peak and gorge yet, and the valley
below with the river winding through and the beaver meadows in the
flats--all those slides and glaciers and waterfalls--cascades like
ribbons of silver against green velvet. I loved it all--it was so
beautiful."

She spoke a little absently, with the faintest shadow of regret, her
voice lingering on the words. And after a momentary silence she went
on:

"We lived there nearly a year, my two brothers and I. I know every
rock and gully within two miles of that cabin. I helped to build that
little house. I used to tramp around in the woods alone. I used to sit
and read, and sometimes just dream, under those big cedars on hot
summer afternoons. The boys thought they would make a little fortune
in that timber. Then one day, when they were felling a tree, a flying
limb struck me on the head--and I was blind; in less than two hours of
being unconscious I woke up, and I couldn't see anything--like that
almost," she snapped her finger. "On top of that my brothers
discovered that they had no right to cut timber there. Things were
going badly in France, too. So they went overseas. They were both
killed in the same action, on the same day. My books were left there
because no one had the heart to carry them out. It was all such a
muddle. Everything seemed to go wrong at once. And you found them and
enjoyed having them to read. Isn't it curious how things that seem so
incoherent,