Night overtook them while they looked still for day, and they returned heavy-hearted and weary to their homes. Large and diligent had been the search, and all the kind Indians were out with them, but no trace could be found of the lost boy. The Indians shook their heads dolefully, and gave signs of despair, though little was said in discouragement, and all volunteered to continue the search the next day. No fires were kindled that night, and only once, in an hour, the horn was sounded, from each house, to give signs of watchfulness, and keep the wild beasts in their distant dens. Morning returned, and another council convened to compare suggestions, and commence another search. Mother Fabens related a dream of the last night, and all gathered around, to hear it. She dreamed that Clinton was passing near the sugar camp, and a creature standing on his hind legs, rushed upon the boy, and bore him off to a multitude that looked like the creature, and let him go free among them. That Clinton wept at first, and tried to get away, but after awhile he looked cheerful again, and stayed with them till she awoke. "Dreadful!" cried poor comfortless Julia; "can it, say, can it be true?" "But that does not show he's killed; and I will not give him up yet," said Uncle Walter. "The wolves hev muttoned him afore this, you may depend," said Troffater. "I don't believe that," said Colwell. "And I don't believe you do aither," said Mr. Waldron, to Troffater. "There's a good 'eal in that dream, I say now; and it gives me hope. Come, let's give another good hunt." "Hugh!" groaned an Indian, dolefully; "he gone, he dead; we no find 'im." "So I b'lieve," added Troffater. "I dremp las night tew, as wal as Granny Fabens; but then our dreams don't agree azackly. I dremp a shaggy wolf ketched 'im.--O, _don't_ cry so, Miss Fabens!--as I was goin' to say--I dremp a shaggy wolf ketched 'im, and craunched the little feller down, as ye'd eat a tender quail. Miss Fabens, _don't_ cry now!--he was all out o' misery perty quick. I dremp he was dead afore he was stript, or his little dimple hands was chanked to mince-meat; don't cry _now_." "You good-for-nothing torment, hold your lying tongue!" said Uncle Walter, in a rage; "who wants to hear your dream? I'd call for a polecat's dream as quick. Shut your lips. _You_ talk about crying! Why, your very words tear open the woman's heart. I'm struck with what Mother Fabens tells." "It seemed as if I must be awake," resumed Mother Fabens, "it was all so plain and natural. How I did feel when the creature sprung and catched little Clinton in his paws!--Awful! But then, I've a little more hope from the dream."