“Did you not know, madam, that your late husband had a policy in the Provident Mutual Benefit Widows’ and Orphans’ Tontine Insurance Company?” “I knew very little about my husband’s business,” said Norine, with a choking sensation in her throat. “Ah, madam, you will fully appreciate your late husband’s cleverness in choosing our company from all others, when I assure you that the very provision he made for you might have been lost in any other company by your not understanding the form and requirements of the policy. But with us how different. We protect our policy holders, and all our policies are incontestable. Is there any gentleman in the family?” he inquired with great interest. “My brother,” said Norine, who had been trying hard to follow and understand the stranger’s rapid speech. “Ah, a brother; I must certainly explain our plans to him before I go; but first, madam, if you will permit me, I will finish our business.” “I do not understand,” cried Norine. “You say my husband had his life insured?” The stranger bowed. “What was the amount of the policy?” inquired Norine. “Two thousand dollars,” said the agent, with an air of having stated an immense amount. “And what am I to do?” cried Norine, again. “Only to give me certain papers, make out, in fact, the proofs of death.” “Will you excuse me,” said Norine, “if I refer you to my brother. I presume he can act for me?” The stranger assented eagerly, perhaps scenting a chance for further business, and Norine left the room in search for Jim. The agent unfolded himself to make a bow as she left the room, and folding himself up with a satisfied smirk when she had gone. It proved quite a business to make out the necessary proofs of death, but they were made out at last to the company’s satisfaction, and Norine in time received a draft for the two thousand dollars. “We will not touch it,” she said to Jim. “It is for Clinton.” And the money was duly invested with the object of ultimately benefiting Master Clinton, who did not seem in the least spoiled by his good fortune. And if any doubt had existed as to the fate of Clinton Percival it was set at rest now forever. He was dead, dead beyond the possibility of a doubt, and even Lester Conway, who had been living all these months in silent fear that the body of the missing man might be found among the living, was at last satisfied, if not sorrowful. Clinton was dead, and nothing stood between himself and Norine but time. CHAPTER XII. CONWAY’S VISITOR. The year had passed away, and spring had come again without bringing any changes to the little family at Bright Farm. Conway was, of course, a frequent visitor; but since Norine’s year of widowhood had expired he found excuses for calling even more frequently than usual, the excuses generally being in the nature of candy, or something equally indigestible, for little Clinton.