father had once or twice been ashamed of himself, when the poor collie had yowled out with the suddenness of the pain, and had relieved himself of his self-reproach by blaming my brother, who, he said, had no notion of training a dog, and was enough to ruin any collie in Christendom with his stupid way of allowing them to lie by the kitchen fire.  To all which Gregory would answer nothing, nor even seem to hear, but go on looking absent and moody.

Yes! there again!  It was Lassie’s bark!  Now or never!  I lifted up my voice and shouted “Lassie! Lassie! for God’s sake, Lassie!” Another moment, and the great white-faced Lassie was curving and gambolling with delight round my feet and legs, looking, however, up in my face with her intelligent, apprehensive eyes, as if fearing lest I might greet her with a blow, as I had done oftentimes before.  But I cried with gladness, as I stooped down and patted her.  My mind was sharing in my body’s weakness, and I could not reason, but I knew that help was at hand.  A gray figure came more and more distinctly out of the thick, close-pressing darkness.  It was Gregory wrapped in his maud.

“Oh, Gregory!” said I, and I fell upon his neck, unable to speak another word.  He never spoke much, and made me no answer for some little time.  Then he told me we must move, we must walk for the dear life—we must find our road home, if possible; but we must move, or we should be frozen to death.

“Don’t you know the way home?” asked I.

“I thought I did when I set out, but I am doubtful now.  The snow blinds me, and I am feared that in moving about just now, I have lost the right gait homewards.”

He had his shepherd’s staff with him, and by dint of plunging it before us at every step we took—clinging close to each other, we went on safely enough, as far as not falling down any of the steep rocks, but it was slow, dreary work.  My brother, I saw, was more guided by Lassie and the way she took than anything else, trusting to her instinct.  It was too dark to see far before us; but he called her back continually, and noted from what quarter she returned, and shaped our slow steps accordingly.  But the tedious motion scarcely kept my very blood from freezing.  Every bone, every fibre in my body seemed first to ache, and then to swell, and then to turn numb with the intense cold.  My brother bore it better than I, from having been more out upon the hills.  He did not speak, except to call Lassie.  I strove to be brave, and not complain; but now I felt the deadly fatal sleep stealing over me.

“I can go no farther,” I said, in a drowsy tone.  I remember I suddenly became dogged and resolved.  Sleep I would, were it only for five minutes.  If death were to be the consequence, sleep I would.  Gregory stood still.  I suppose, he recognized the peculiar phase of suffering to which I had been brought by the cold.

“It is of no use,” said he, as if to himself.  “We are no nearer home than we were when we started, as far as I can tell.  Our only chance is in Lassie.  Here! roll thee in my maud, lad, and lay thee down on this sheltered side of this bit of rock.  Creep close under it, lad, and I’ll lie by thee, and strive to keep the warmth in us.  Stay! hast gotten aught about thee they’ll know at home?”

I felt him unkind thus to keep me from slumber, but on his repeating the question, I pulled out my pocket-handkerchief, of some showy pattern, which Aunt Fanny had hemmed for me—Gregory took it, and tied it round Lassie’s neck.

“Hie thee, Lassie, hie thee home!”  And the white-faced ill-favoured brute was off like a shot in the darkness.  Now I might lie down—now I might sleep.  In my drowsy stupor I felt that I was being tenderly covered up by my brother; but what with I neither knew nor cared—I was too dull, too selfish, too numb to think and reason, or I might have known that