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.
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