" A catholic collection, with strong meat sandwiched between some
of the rat-gnawed covers. And each bore on the flyleaf the inscription
of the first, written in a clear firm hand: Doris Cleveland--Her Book.
Hollister put the last volume back in place and stood staring at the
row. Who was Doris Cleveland and why had she left her books to the
rats?
He gave over his wonder at the patently unanswerable, went out into
the living room, glanced casually over that once more, and so to the
outside where the snow crisped under his feet now that the sun had
withdrawn behind the hills. About the slashed area where the cedars
had fallen, over stumps and broken branches and the low roof of the
cabin, the virgin snow laid its softening whiteness, and the tall
trees enclosed the spot with living green. A hidden squirrel broke out
with brisk scolding, a small chirruping voice in a great silence. Here
men had lived and worked and gone their way again. The forest remained
as it was before. The thickets would soon arise to conceal man's
handiwork.
Hollister shook off this fleeting impression of man's impermanence,
and turned downhill lest dark catch him in the heavy timber and make
him lose his way.
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