“Oh, he’ll get over it all right,” replied the doctor. “He got a nasty cut, but it is not at all dangerous.” “Hit’s a good thing ther skunk’s dead,” said the other voice, as they moved off. “No one’ll ever miss him but ther divil!” The figure dropped lightly to the floor as they moved away. “I’ll be dead enough for them!” he muttered hoarsely. “If I can find that cursed ravine, I will leave them evidence enough!” and he skulked away through the woods, looking rather more like a wild animal than ever. And the closest search satisfied all that Clinton Percival was dead. His hat and one glove were found on the edge of the most dangerous ravine for miles around, and hanging to the bushes, halfway down, were found shreds of cloth that had been part of his coat. There could be no question as to his death. And although his body could not be found, even after the most diligent search, there was no possible doubt as to his fate. He was dead. CHAPTER XI. NORINE’S POSITION. Yes, he was dead. Norine never doubted it. The proofs were too strong to admit of doubt, even if she had been disposed to admit one; but she never dreamed of questioning the matter. She was certain of her desolation, certain of her widowhood, and she mourned as only a tender, loving woman can mourn. His faults were all forgotten now, and she remembered him only as her girlhood lover and the father of her child. She reproached herself bitterly, passionately, as having been the cause of the quarrel. If she had only been more considerate, she thought, and had not given way to her wicked, foolish temper, this would never have happened. And now----Ah, her punishment was greater than she could bear. And so she mourned, woman-like, accepting all the blame, and refusing to hear one word that would reflect on her husband’s memory. Nor was she alone at this, for Jim--weak from the loss of blood, suffered far more in mind than body. He did not admit himself to be in the wrong in protecting his sister, but his interference had plainly caused the trouble, and he dreaded, yet longed, to see Norine. “She will never forgive me,” he thought. “She will _never_ forgive me;” and he moaned in bitterness of spirit. And poor Norine only dreaded meeting him, lest he should reproach her. She was very weak after her great shock, and very ill, so for a time the brother and sister were separated from necessity. Doctor Conway was greatly troubled over his patients at the farm. Norine did not rally as well as he could wish, but lay weak and silent, only moving to care for her child. She was perfectly passive, and accepted all he did for her; grateful apparently for his attentions, but perfectly indifferent as to the result. Jim, on the other hand, was plainly worrying himself into a fever, and Conway feared the result. He could heal the cut in Jim’s breast, but he acknowledged his inability to minister to a mind diseased.