Lloyd tripped over some of the syllables as she repeated the sentence, but tried it again and again until the Major cried “Bravo!  You shall have more lessons, until you can give the command so well that Hero shall obey you as he does me.”

Then he began talking of Christine, her fair hair, her blue eyes, her playful ways; and Lloyd, listening, drew him on with many questions.

Suddenly the Major arose, bowing courteously, for Mrs. Sherman, seeing them from the doorway, had smiled and started toward them.  Springing up, Lloyd ran to meet her.

“Mothah,” she whispered, “please ask the Majah to sit at ou’ table tonight at dinnah.  He’s such a deah old man, and tells such interestin’ things, and he’s lonesome.  The tears came into his eyes when he talked about his little daughtah.  She was just my age when she died, mothah, and he thinks she looked like me.”

The Major’s courtly manner and kind face had already aroused Mrs. Sherman’s interest.  His empty sleeve reminded her of her father.  His loneliness appealed to her sympathy, and his kindness to her little daughter had won her deepest appreciation.  She turned with a cordial smile to repeat Lloyd’s invitation, which was gladly accepted.

That was the beginning of a warm friendship.  From that time he was included in their plans.  Now, in nearly all their excursions and drives, there were four in the party instead of three, and five, very often.  Whenever it was possible, Hero was with them.  He and the Little Colonel often went out together alone.  It grew to be a familiar sight in the town, the graceful fair-haired child and the big tawny St. Bernard, walking side by side along the quay.  She was not afraid to venture anywhere with such a guard.  As for Hero, he followed her as gladly as he did his master.

CHAPTER III

THE RED CROSS OF GENEVA

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 colors 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?”