He was tied to his camp. He could not stir abroad without more
discomfort than he cared to undergo. Every bush, every bough, would
precipitate upon him showers of drops at the slightest touch. He sat
by his fire in the mouth of the tent and smoked and thought of the
comfortable cabin up in the cedar hollow, and of Doris Cleveland's
books. He began by reflecting that he might have brought one down to
read. He ended before nightfall of a dull, rain-sodden day with a
resolution to move up there when the weather cleared. A tent was well
enough, but a house with a fireplace was better.
The rain held forty-eight hours without intermission. Then, as if the
clouds had discharged their aqueous cargo and rode light as
unballasted ships, they lifted in aerial fleets and sailed away, white
in a blue sky. The sun, swinging in a low arc, cocked a lazy eye over
the southern peaks, and Hollister carried his first pack-load up to
the log cabin while the moss underfoot, the tree trunks, the green
blades of the salal, and the myriad stalks of the low thickets were
still gleaming with the white frost that came with a clearing sky.
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