on, and it held
them up from utter despair; while the Indians added a little more to
their courage by denying that the captive fawn was killed by them; for
they had not killed a fawn in a great while. The white people all
believed more or less in portents, warnings and dreams; and trusting a
little to their vaticination now, they could not yield the lingering
hope that he was still alive. But when they came to reason, that hope
was quite extinguished. Had he been alive, and within any reasonable
distance, he would have been discovered. But no trace of him could be
found even by the sharp-sighted Indians; and then the screams of those
panthers, on the first dismal night, increased the probability of his
awful fate. Still a search was continued by three or four, and on the
fifth day, they discovered a hat about a mile from the path he was
pursuing, and it was found to be Clinton's, and a present to him from a
cousin in Cloverdale. Again was the settlement set in commotion, and
again many surmises and opinions were expressed regarding the poor
boy's fate.

But after that, no trace in wood or field was discovered to clear up
the painful mystery. The people settled down into the belief that a
panther had taken him, and after he had carried him that distance, on
the way to his dark lair in the forest, the hat fell from his drooping
head, and the loose leaves settled partly over it, and concealed it
from view on the first day's search. The parents of the child, and all
his friends, except Mother Fabens, were forced at last to the dreadful
conclusion which assured them their little fondling was no more; and
their grief was deep and lasting. And Mother Fabens grieved sadly with
the others; but the impression of her dream still whispered hope to her
soul; and the liberation of the fawn she had never forgotten. And when
she sickened and died a few months after, she said "it was more than
possible that Matthew and Julia might live long enough to see Clinton
alive again on earth."

But her kindly-attempted consolations could rally their hopes no more.
It was a thought that wrung their desolate hearts; but they were forced
to regard their lost boy as having perished in the grasp of some wild
beast. And that was the grief of griefs. With all the faith and hope
they could command, it shook them and bowed them down, and all the
bright world for a while looked dreary and sad on their account. It
gave them ghastly dreams.