Wiping her eyes, he led her across the street, explaining as he went how it happened that he and the dog were on the street when she passed.  They had been in the gardens all morning and were going home to lunch, when they heard the clatter of the runaway far down the street.  The Major could not see who was in the carriage, only that it appeared to be a child.  He was too old a man, and with his one arm too helpless to attempt to stop it, but he remembered that Hero had once shared the training of some collies for police service, before it had been decided to use him as an ambulance dog.  They were taught to spring at the bridles of escaping horses.

“I was doubtful if Hero remembered those early lessons,” said the Major, “but I called out to him sharply, for the love of heaven to stop it if he could, and that instant he was at the horse’s head, hanging on with all his might.  Bravo, old fellow!” he continued, turning to the dog as he spoke.  “We are proud of you this day!”

They were in the corridor of the hotel now, and the Little Colonel, kneeling beside Hero and putting her arms around his neck, finished her sobbing with her fair little face laid fondly against his silky coat.

“Oh, you deah, deah old Hero,” she said.  “You saved me, and I’ll love you fo’ evah and evah!”

The crowd was still in front of the hotel, and the corridor full of excited servants and guests, when Mr. and Mrs. Sherman hurried in.  They had taken the first carriage they could hail and driven as fast as possible in the wake of the runaway.  Mrs. Sherman was trembling so violently that she could scarcely stand, when they reached the hotel.  The clerk who ran out to assure them of the Little Colonel’s safety was loud in his praises of the faithful St. Bernard.

Hero had known many masters.  Any one in the uniform of the army had once had authority over him.  He had been taught to obey many voices.  Many hands had fed and fondled him, but no hand had ever lain quite so tenderly on his head, as the Little Colonel’s.  No one had ever looked into his eyes so gratefully as she, and no voice had ever thrilled him with as loving tones as hers, as she knelt there beside him, calling him all the fond endearing names she knew.  He understood far better than if 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.