ing him away from the place where he belonged and
where he could have been so useful, and then to treat him so cruelly. Of
course, the Pixleys didn't know the truth, but that didn't help poor
Jan."

The doctor turned and knelt down, studying the sleeping dog, then he
rose and went back to his chair.

"I took a walking tour of Switzerland after I finished my studies in
Europe," he said, at last. "So that was how I happened to be at the
Hospice the day that dog was taken away. I had heard one of the monks
tell about this dog's father, who died saving travellers on an
ice-bridge. I went on my way toward Italy, and I saw this dog start down
the trail to Martigny, the opposite direction. I have never forgotten
the pitiful look in his eyes nor the call he gave as he was led away. I
felt then that it was a tragedy, but never had an idea of what the poor
little fellow would have to suffer. Nor had I any idea that the lives
of my dear ones would be saved through him!"

"The only thing I ever knew about the St. Bernard dogs was that they
lived at the Hospice and went out to hunt lost people in the snow," the
captain spoke. "You are the first one I ever knew who had been there. I
wish I could have seen it and those splendid dogs!"

"You know, the Pass of Great St. Bernard is the main road of travel
between Italy and Switzerland," the doctor went on, and his wife leaned
forward as eagerly as Jan's master to hear about Jan's birthplace. "It
was through this Pass that Napoleon Bonaparte led his army of soldiers,
single file and afoot, in the month of May, 1800!"

"I have read about that march," interrupted the old man, "and I know
what it meant, with food and ammunition and those big guns to haul. You
see, I served all through the four years of the Civil War."

"May is the most dangerous time in the Alps, for the snow melts and
slides in great avalanches, often catching people with no chance for
escape. When I stood on the stone steps of the Hospice, where many feet
have worn little hollows, and I remembered how many people would never
have reached those steps without the dogs' help, I felt that though
Napoleon was a great general and a brave man, the dogs of the Hospice
were just as great and just as brave. And the monument to Barry, near
the old Hospice, was as fine in my eyes as the beautiful white marble
one that Napoleon built in memory of General de Sais, who died on that
trip, and which is in the chapel of the Hospice. B