sled up again, Bob's whistle sounded, the last trace of her resentment vanished.
"Something told me you'd be out hunting a sore throat to-day," declared Bob, In mock-disapproval. "The fellows all said there wouldn't be enough snow to hold up a sparrow."
"Silly things!" dimpled Betty. "There's plenty of snow for a good coast. Take me, Bob?"
"Well, if you'll come on over where there's a decent hill," Bob assented. "With only two on the bob, we want to get some grade. Here, I'll stick your sled in between these two trees and you can get it when we come back."
Together they pulled the heavy bobsled up the hill and crossed over the hollow, taking a wagon trail that led up over another hill.
"It's a long walk," admitted Bob, panting. "But wait till you see the ride we're going to get."
They reached the top of Pudding Hill presently, and Betty looked down over a rolling expanse of white country covered closely by a lowering gray sky that looked, she said to herself, like the lid of a soup kettle.
"Bully coast!" exclaimed Bob with satisfaction, swinging the bodsled into position. "All ready, Betsey?"
"Just a minute," begged Betty, with a delightful little shiver of excitement as she tucked in
