"Father," said John one summer afternoon, when his tasks for the day
were quite finished, "Brutus and I are going for a long walk."

"Very well, my son," answered the Hermit, "I will bide here and read my
book, for the heat has made me somewhat weary. But see that you return
before sunset."

"Yes, father," said John.

Slinging over his shoulder a little basket in which to fetch home any
strange plants which he might find in the forest, John whistled to
Brutus, and the pair trotted away together as they loved to do. The
Hermit looked after them, and smiled.

"John is a good boy," he said. "One day he will be a fine man. May
the Saints help me to make him worthy of his father and of the name he
bears." Then he turned to his beloved book.

John and Brutus went merrily through the forest, the boy singing under
his breath snatches of the cheerful hymns that he and the Hermit loved.
The dog ran ahead, exploring in the bushes, sometimes disappearing for
long minutes at a time, but ever returning to rub his nose in John's
hand and exchange a silent word with him. They were not going for any
particular errand to any especial spot. They were just rambling
wherever the forest looked inviting; which is the nicest way to travel
through the woods,--especially if one of you can be trusted to find the
way home, however wavering may be the trail that you leave behind. It
was what John loved to do more than anything in the world.