"Robin Lindsay," as Nell called him, was in no way that kind of dog. He was nearly black, with a broad chest and smooth, close coat. He had ears that drooped forward like a hound’s, a wrinkled forehead, and wise brown eyes. Certainly he was all sorts of dog, but it was all of the best, which mattered a great deal in that terribly lonely place. Andrew Lindsay had brought him home one day, four years ago, having bought him from a man who was going to make an end of what he thought was a useless puppy.
Now he lay on the thick grey skin of a wolf, his nose between his paws--watching Nell’s face with little twitches of his thoughtful forehead. He knew there was something the matter, and waited.
"What shall you do, Nell, if Dad doesn’t come back to-night?" asked David, stopping in his work of carving a tiny little sled out of wood. "You’ll have to do something, shan’t you?"
Nell got up from her seat on the bench, walked slowly to the door, slid back the heavy bolt, opened the door and looked out. A raw chill entered and seemed to creep into every corner on the instant. Robin rose to his feet, stalked after his mistress and sniffed the doorstep enquiringly.
"I thought so," said the girl as she shut out the bitter dusk.
"I suppose you mean that will wipe out Dad’s trail? Is that it?" asked the boy.
"It wouldn’t make a scrap of difference to Robin, he’d follow a trail through inches of snow. You simply can’t bluff him. He always knows. No, I wasn’t thinking about the trail exactly--not in that sort of way, anyhow--it’s not much good hunting a trail when you pretty well know where it’s going to lead you at the start. I mean, Da, that I guess where Dad is. When I’m certain I’ll tell you most likely. Matter of fact I was _hoping_ for snow."
"It’ll come in useful if I’m not mistaken," said Nell in a conclusive tone.
David stared at her, puzzled. He believed she was the cleverest girl alive, but he did not even remotely understand what she was talking about. On the face of the situation snow was the most tiresome impediment to any sort of move. He knew it might be expected now, because when the bitterest, glittering frost began to give way to the cold that comes between winter and spring, the snow was softer underfoot and falls might be constantly expected. Slight as the change was, the wind had not the same icy breath. Not that one felt warmer, on the contrary, the faint tinge of damp made the air cold beyond description, but probably there was not quite the same danger of frost-bite for the face and hands.