After a few moments, I rose from the ground, brushed off the snow from my clothes, and began seriously to devise some plan of action. But here, again, my habit of dependence came in my way. Little accustomed to think or act for myself in any emergency, I was a poor hand for contrivance. My convenient friend, Bill Keeler, had been accustomed always to save me the trouble of making any mental or bodily exertion. O how ardently did I now wish that he was with me! How did I fill the mountain with cries of his name! But there was no return. Even the throat of the mountain, that had ever before been so ready with its echoes, was now choked up with the thickening shower of snow. Nothing could be heard but one deafening roar of the gale, chafing the uneasy tops of the trees. I concluded to set out in what seemed to me the direction of my home, and to push straight forward till I was extricated from the wilds of the mountain. I began to put this scheme in execution, and for more than an hour I plodded on through the woods. I proceeded with considerable rapidity for a time, but the snow was now a foot in depth, and as it impeded my progress, so it diminished my strength. I was, at length, obliged to slacken my pace, and finally, being completely wearied out, I sat down beneath the branches of a large hemlock tree, to rest myself. This spot was so sheltered by the thickly woven branches as to be free from snow, and here I continued for some time. When I got up to proceed, I found my limbs so stiffened that it was difficult for me to move. At the same time a dizziness came over me, and I fell to the ground. It was not till the next day that I had any consciousness of existence. When I awoke, I was in a dark, rocky cavern, with a grizzly old woman by my side. At first, I fancied it all to be some strange dream, and expected to awake and find myself in my comfortable bed at my uncle’s. But pretty soon, remembrances of the preceding day came back, and guessing at the truth, I asked--“Is that you, Sarah?” “It is me,” said the old woman; “and you are in my cave.” “And you have saved my life, then?” said I, half rising from my recumbent position. “Yes--yes,” said she; “I found you beneath the hemlock, and I brought you here. But you must be quiet, for you have suffered, and need care and rest.” I need not attempt to tell how gratefully I thanked the poor old hermitess, and how I begged pardon for my impertinence on the preceding morning. I then began to inquire about other things--the depth of the snow; whether anything was known of my companion; and how and when I could return to my uncle. In reply, I was told that there was at least four feet of snow on the ground; that it was therefore impossible to attempt to leave the cave; that Bill Keeler, being an expert woodsman, had no doubt found his way home; and that in all probability I was given up by my friends as lost.