with no snow and no work to do, he had failed; and now, he would die in
disgrace after a useless life that meant dishonour to his father and
Barry, and the other dogs who had lived and died doing their duty as St.
Bernards.

Through the long hours of the night, though darkness shut away the sight
of the other dogs, Jan could hear restless movements and choked
whimpers, so that he could not forget where he was, and at last, when
morning broke, he lifted his head slowly and looked at the dogs around
him. Then he remembered that morning at the Hospice when he had wakened
early, waiting impatiently for his first lesson on the trail. But these
dogs around him, now, were pitiful things, cowering and shivering; the
eyes that met his own were dull and hopeless, and the ears all drooped
dejectedly.

The dogs started nervously as a key scraped in the lock of the door.
Then the old man came into the room and went from one dog to the other,
patting each in turn as he placed clean, freshly cooked meat and a pan
of water within easy reach. The poor animals shrank back, but as they
saw that he did not threaten any of them, the ragged tails flopped and
the eyes that followed him were less timid. When he reached Jan, the man
stood looking at him and shaking his head slowly. The dog, still
suspicious of every human being, bunched his muscles and waited, but the
smile and gentle voice, "You poor old fellow! I'm afraid I can't do
anything for you," made Jan look up with his great, wistful eyes
pleading for sympathy and kindness.

"I'll do the best I can, though," the old man said, at last, as he
untied the rope and turned toward the door.