“Why not?” returned Clinton seriously. “There are stranger things than that in this world. Perhaps the poor bug was created for that purpose, unimportant as it was. At any rate,” he continued lightly, “I was found, and I am very glad that I was found by you. I only hope that I shall be able to convince you of my gratitude.” “That is very easy. I will absolve you.” “Oh! but I may not be able to absolve myself!” said Clinton gravely. There was a pause now of some moments. Clinton lay, with his eyes half closed, watching Norine’s face, and speculating upon his probable fate in case he had been found by any one else. After a while, finding that field of conjecture limitless, he broke the silence again. “Miss Norine,” he said, “I wish you would tell me about it. How you found me, I mean. Where is that hut?” And then Norine told him of the deserted hut and of the ailing Higgins, and of her errand in their behalf, how she had found him, and how they had brought him there. “Do you remember anything of that awful night?” she asked, in conclusion. “I only remember the storm,” replied Clinton, “and my fighting against it. It does not seem possible that it lasted only one day, or night, rather. It seems as if I had been for months wandering over that confounded mountain. I do not remember how or when I got hurt, neither do I remember finding the cabin.” “There is one thing Jim and I have spoken of several times,” said Norine gently, changing the subject. “We have thought perhaps you might wish to have your friends notified.” “My friends,” said Clinton, with a bitter laugh. “There is only one person in this world that I know of that would have felt one spark of interest if my life had been snuffed out that night.” “Oh, you must not talk that way,” said Norine, greatly shocked. “I am sure you must be wrong. Have you no relatives?” “None,” answered Clinton, “unless some distant cousins whom I have never seen, and whom, I doubt, know of my existence. I have neither friends nor relatives.” “You just spoke of one friend,” suggested Norine gently. “No, not a friend exactly in the sense you mean it. There is one person in New York with whom I left a few--a very few hundred dollars, to keep for me; but he is more a banker than a friend.” “How terrible!” said Norine softly; “and what a very lonesome place the world must be to one without kindred or friends.” “I have never felt it so until now,” replied Clinton. “Perhaps I have been too selfishly interested in my own existence to feel the need of other ties; but after my narrow escape on that mountain, I feel that I should not like to die without some one to mourn for me.” “Ah, well, that is all over now,” said Norine cheerfully; “and it is always so easy for a man to make friends.” “Why easier for a man, than one of the other sex?” interposed Clinton.