he had been human, that she loved him. Eagerly licking her hands and
wagging his tail, he told her as plainly as a dog can talk that
henceforth he would be one of her best and most faithful of friends.

If petting and praise and devoted attention could spoil a dog, Hero's
head would certainly have been turned that day, for friends and
strangers alike made much of him. A photographer came to take his
picture for the leading daily paper. Before nightfall his story was
repeated in every home in Geneva. No servant in the hotel but took a
personal pride in him or watched his chance to give him a sly sweetmeat
or a caress. But being a dog instead of a human, the attention only made
him the more lovable, for it made him feel that it was a kind world he
lived in and everybody was his friend.




CHAPTER II

HERO'S STORY


Late that afternoon the Major sat out in the shady courtyard of the
hotel, where vines, potted plants, and a fountain made a cool green
garden spot. He was thinking of his little daughter, who had been dead
many long years. The American child, whom his dog had rescued from the
runaway in the morning, was wonderfully like her. She had the same fair
hair, he thought, that had been his little Christine's great beauty; the
same delicate, wild-rose pink in her cheeks, the same mischievous smile
dimpling her laughing face. But Christine's eyes had not been a starry