A week after the runaway the handsomest collar that could be bought in town was fastened around Hero’s neck.  It had taken a long time to get it, for Mr. Sherman went to many shops before he found material that he considered good enough for the rescuer of his little daughter.  Then the jeweller had to keep it several days while he engraved an inscription on the gold name-plate—­an inscription that all who read might know what happened on a certain July day in the old Swiss town of Geneva.  On the under side of the collar was a stout link like the one on his old one, to which the flask could be fastened when he was harnessed for service, and on the upper side, finely wrought in enamel, was a red cross on a white square.

“Papa Jack!” exclaimed Lloyd, examining it with interest, “that is the same design that is on his blanket and shouldah-bags.  Why, it’s just like the Swiss flag!” she cried, looking out at the banner floating from the pier.  “Only the colours are turned around.  The flag has a white cross on a red ground, and this is a red cross on a white ground.  Why did you have it put on the collah, Papa Jack?”

“Because he is a Red Cross dog,” answered her father.

“No, Papa Jack.  Excuse me for contradictin’, but the Majah said he was a St. Bernard dog.”

Mr. Sherman laughed, but before he could explain he was called to the office to answer a telegram.  When he returned Lloyd had disappeared to find the Major, and ask about the symbol on the collar.  She found him in his favourite seat near the fountain, in the shady courtyard.  Perching on a bench near by with Hero for a foot-stool, she asked, “Majah, is Hero a St. Bernard or a Red Cross dog?”

“He is both,” answered the Major, smiling at her puzzled expression.  “He is the first because he belongs to that family of dogs, and he is the second because he was adopted by the Red Cross Association, and trained for its service.  You know what that is, of course.”

Still Lloyd looked puzzled.  She shook her head.  “No, I nevah heard of it.  Is it something Swiss or French?”

“Never heard of it!” repeated the Major.  He spoke in such a surprised tone that his voice sounded gruff and loud, and Lloyd almost jumped.  The harshness was so unexpected.

“Think again, child,” he said, sternly.  “Surely you have been told, at least, of your brave countrywoman who is at the head of the organisation in America, who nursed not only the wounded of your own land, but followed the Red Cross of mercy on many foreign battle-fields!”

“Oh, a hospital nurse!” said Lloyd, wrinkling her forehead and trying to think.  “Miss Alcott was one.  Everybody knows about her, and her ’Hospital Sketches’ are lovely.”

“No! no!” exclaimed the Major, impatiently.  Lloyd, feeling from his tone that ignorance on this subject was something he could not excuse, tried again.

“I’ve heard of Florence Nightingale.  In one of my books at home, a Chatterbox, I think, there is a picture of her going through a hospital ward.  Mothah told me how good she was to the soldiahs, and how they loved her.  They even kissed her shadow on the wall as she passed.  They were so grateful.”