eyes are so intelligent."

"They are living sermons on obedience, loyalty, and self-sacrifice,"
answered Brother Antoine's gentle voice. "Not one of these dogs would
hesitate to risk his life to save his most bitter enemy. That has been
their heritage for almost a thousand years, now."

"Natural instinct counts for a great deal," the grey-eyed man spoke as
he looked into the upturned faces of the dogs, "but the patient training
you give them has developed it."

"The older dogs help us teach the youngsters," went on the monk, whose
hand rested on Jan's head. "We send out four dogs each morning--two
younger ones and two of the old ones. One pair goes on the trail down
the Italian slope toward Aosta, the other travels the Swiss path leading
to Martigny. None of them turns back until the last cabin of refuge has
been reached, where they look to see if any person is waiting. It is not
unusual for the dogs to stay out all night in a hard storm. There have
been many instances of their remaining away for two days and nights,
without food or shelter, though at any time they could have come home."

"Our guide showed us the cabin," interrupted the older man. "The
footprints of the dogs proved they had been there a short time before
us. We followed their tracks until the storm covered them. It was a
lucky thing the storm did not break earlier."

"The dogs would have found you, Mr. Pixley," the monk replied. "You see,
since we have had a telephone from the Hospice, each time travellers
start up the trails, we know when they leave Martigny or Aosta and how
many are on the way. If they do not reach here in reasonable time, or a
storm breaks, we send out the dogs at once. It was much harder in the
other days, before we had telephones, for we could not tell how many
poor souls were struggling in the snow. The dogs seemed to understand,
too, and so they kept on searching until they believed they had found
all."

"I would not have attempted this trip had I not been assured that it was
too early for a bad storm," said Mr. Pixley. "It is foolhardy, not
courageous, to face these mountains in a winter storm. I cannot imagine
any one being so rash as to try it, but I suppose many do?"

"During the winter only poor peasants travel the Pass," was Brother
Antoine's answer. "They cross from Italy to seek work in the vineyards
of France or Switzerland for the summer. When summer is over they return
home this way, because it would mean a lo