of storm and deep-lying snow he
started out to see after the safety of his sheep. Hours had passed,
darkness had fallen, and he did not come home. Then a shepherd
remembered having seen him crossing a certain hill where snow lay extra
deep. To this hill in the morning the searchers betook themselves, to
find that a great avalanche had taken place, leaving the hill bare but
for the night's coating of snow. At the hill-foot the old snow was piled
in giant masses. Here a dog sniffed, and whimpered, and began to scrape.
They found Laidlaw buried there in tons of snow, uninjured save in one
arm, and after fourteen hours burial in his snowy sepulchre he was still
partly conscious. When the tumbling snow mass overwhelmed him he had had
presence of mind and strength to clear from before his face breathing
space sufficient to preserve life. Laidlaw lived for many years after,
in no permanent respect a sufferer from his burial and resurrection.

His was an experience of no common order, yet it was a case less strange
than that of a sportsman, many years ago, who, unused to the hills, was
lost amongst the snow one evening of sudden storm. Far and long he
wandered, till, utterly exhausted, dropping from fatigue and cold, he
chanced on a roof-less cottage, the crumbling walls of which promised
some shelter from the wind and the terrible drifting snow. By the empty
chimney-place he sat down, thankful that at least the bitter gale no
longer buffeted him. But the snow fell thick and fast, eddying into
every corner, gently covering his feet and stealing up over his body. A
drowsy languor crept over his senses, an irresistible feeling of warmth
and comfort came to him; his head fell forward. Again and again, knowing
the deadly peril, he roused himself with ever-increasing effort; again
and again his head sank. Then suddenly it seemed that all was well. How
_could_ he have fancied that he was out amongst the snow? The sound of
the gale still thundered in his ears, but dully, muffled by thick walls,
and he stood in a bedroom wherein burned a cheerful fire. On the bed lay
a man, who presently, with a start, sat up, looked at him, and lay down
again. Three times this happened, but the fourth time the man in bed got
up and hurriedly began to dress. He was a man unknown to the dreamer--if
dreaming he was--but his features were strongly marked, and bore a
scar on the cheek, unmistakable to anyone who had once seen it. Then,
suddenly, except for