'Prin would try to get her out,' he remarked. 'Like the dogs up in those snowy hills.'
'He means the St Bernard dogs,' said Nettie. 'Mother told us stories about them.'
'Ah, yes!' said her father. 'But they are ever so much bigger than Prince, my boy. Much more fear of Prince being lost himself in a snowstorm, than of his rescuing anyone else, poor little dog.'
'But there isn't going to be a snowstorm,' said Linda. 'Father, mightn't we go—I anyway?'
'No, my dear,' said her father. 'It's too uncertain. I hope the weather will keep up. If it doesn't, no one can go. But it is too uncertain for little girls: the boys must learn to rough it, but you and Nettie must be content to skate on the pond here for the present.'
Linda's face clouded over still more. She hated being called 'a little girl,' especially before her brothers. Her father turned away, either not seeing, or not wishing to seem to see, her vexation.
'Get to bed early, then, and be up in good time,' he called out to the boys as he left the room.
CHAPTER IV.—MASTERING THE FEAR.
