“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 favorite 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 organization 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.”

“Ah, yes,” murmured the old man.  “Florence Nightingale will live long in song and story.  An angel of mercy she was, through all the horrors of the Crimean War; but she was an English woman, my dear.  The one I mean is an American, and her name ought to go down in history with the bravest of its patriots and the most honored of its benefactors.  I learned to know her first in that long siege at Strasburg.  She nursed me there, and I have followed her career with grateful interest ever since, noting with admiration all that she has done for her country and humanity the world over.

“If America ever writes a woman’s name in her temple of fame (I say it with uncovered head), that one should be the name of Clara Barton.”

The old soldier lifted his hat as he spoke, and replaced it so solemnly that Lloyd felt very uncomfortable, as if she were in some way to blame for not knowing and admiring this Red Cross nurse of whom she had never heard.  Her face flushed, and much embarrassed, she drew the toe of her slipper along Hero’s back, answering, in an abused tone: