"Not necessarily. It's my idea she got from hoping to moping, so
to speak. She went in to town regular for letters for ten years,
and the postmaster says she never got any. She was hurt in front
of the post office. The talk around here is that she's been off
her head for the last year or two."

"But they found the cabin."

"Sure they did," said the conductor equably. "The cabin was no
secret. It was an old fire station before they put the new one on
Goat Mountain. I spent a month in it myself, once, with a dude who
wanted to take pictures of bear. We found a bear, but it charged
the camera and I'd be running yet if I hadn't come to civilization."

When he had gone Bassett fell into deep thought. So Maggie
Donaldson had gone to the post office for ten years. He tried to
visualize those faithful, wearisome journeys, through spring mud
and winter snow, always futile and always hopeful. He did not for
a moment believe that she had "gone off her head." She had been
faithful to the end, as some women were, and in the end, too, as
had happened before, her faith had killed her.

And again he wondered at the curious ability of some men to secure
loyalty. They might go through life, tearing down ideals and
destroying illusions to the last, but always there was some
faithful hand to rebuild, some faithful soul to worship.

He was somewhat daunted at the size and bustling activity of Norada.
Its streets were paved and well-lighted, there were a park and a