quiet again. "Woa! Quiet, my lass!" I heard my father saying, and it
seemed his Missy was more frightened than mine.

My fear was now quite gone, and I felt much inclined to laugh at the
fun of the misadventure. I had as yet no idea of how serious a thing
it might be. Still I had sense enough to see that something must be
done--but what? I saw no way of getting out of the hole except by
trampling down the snow upon the back of my poor mare, and that I
could not think of; while I doubted much whether my father even could
tell in what direction to turn for help or shelter.

[Illustration]

Finding our way home, even if we got free, seemed out of the question.
Again my mare began plunging violently, and this time I found myself
thrown against some hard substance. I thrust my hand through the snow,
and felt what I thought the stones of one of the dry walls common to
the country. I might clear away enough of the snow to climb upon that;
but then what next--it was so dark?

"Ranald!" cried my father; "how do you get on?"

"Much the same, father," I answered.

"I'm out of the wreath," he returned. "We've come through on the other
side. You are better where you are I suspect, however. The snow is
warmer than the air. It is beginning to blow. Pull your feet out and
get right upon the mare's back."

"That's just where I am, father--lying on her back, and pretty
comfortable," I rejoined.

All this time the snow was falling thick. If it went on like this, I
should be buried before morning, and the fact that the wind was rising
added to the danger of it. We were at the wrong end of the night too.

"I'm in a kind of ditch, I think, father," I cried--the place we fell
off on one side and a stone wall on the other."

"That can hardly be, or I shouldn't have got out," he returned. "But
now I've got Missy quiet, I'll come to you. I must get you out, I see,
or you will be snowed up. Woa, Missy! Good mare! Stand still."

The next moment he gave a joyous exclamation.

"What is it, father?" I cried.

"It's not a stone wall; it's a peat-stack. That _is_ good."

"I don't see what good it is. We can't light a fire."

"No, my boy; but where there's a peat-stack, there's probably a
house."

He began uttering a series of shouts at the top of his voice,
listening between for a response. This lasted a good while. I began to
get very cold.

"I'm nearly frozen, father," I said, "and what's to become of the poor
mare--she's got no