top where she was, and there, among the crags, by the
stained remnants of winter's snow, thirteen thousand feet above
sea-level, she was to spend the night. The cold wind blew a gale,
roaring and booming among the crags, the alpine brooklet turned to
ice, while, in the lee of the crag, shivering with cold, hugging
shaggy Scotch in her arms, she lay down for the night.

I had given my word not to go in search of her if she failed to
return. However, I sent out four guides to look for her. They suffered
much from cold as they vainly searched among the crags through the
dark hours of the windy night. Just at sunrise one of them found her,
almost exhausted, but, with slightly frost-bitten fingers, still
hugging Scotch in her arms. He gave her food and drink and additional
wraps, and without delay started with her down the trail. As soon as
she was taken in charge by the guide, patient Scotch left her and
hurried home. He had saved her life.

Scotch's hair is long and silky, black with a touch of tawny about the
head and a little bar of white on the nose. He has the most expressive
and pleasing dog's face I have ever seen. There is nothing he enjoys
so well as to have some one kick the football for him. For an hour at
a time he will chase it and try to get hold of it, giving an
occasional eager, happy bark. He has good eyes, and these, with his
willingness to be of service, have occasionally made him useful to me
in finding articles which I, or some one else, had forgotten or lost
on the trail. Generally it is difficult to make him understand just
what has been lost or where he is to look for it, but when once he
understands, he keeps up the search, sometimes for hours if he does
not find the article before. He is always faithful in guarding any
object that I ask him to take care of. I have but to throw down a coat
and point at it, and he will at once lie down near by, there to remain
until I come to dismiss him. He will allow no one else to touch it.
His attitude never fails to convey the impression that he would die
in defense of the thing intrusted to him, but desert it or give it
up, never!

One February day I took Scotch and started up Long's Peak, hoping to
gain its wintry summit. Scotch easily followed in my snowshoe-tracks.
At an altitude of thirteen thousand feet on the wind-swept steeps
there was but little snow, and it was necessary to leave snowshoes
behind. After climbing a short distance on these icy slopes,