Her father bent his head gravely:  “Ay, ay! let the dog have the best;” for the stern old man was moved and shaken to his heart’s depths.

It was Christmas eve, and the mill-house was filled with oak logs and squares of turf, with cream and honey, with meat and bread, and the rafters were hung with wreaths of evergreen, and the Calvary and the cuckoo clock looked out from a mass of holly.  There were little paper lanterns, too, for Alois, and toys of various fashions and sweetmeats in bright-pictured papers.  There were light and warmth and abundance everywhere, and the child would fain have made the dog a guest honoured and feasted.

But Patrasche would neither lie in the warmth nor share in the cheer.  Famished he was and very cold, but without Nello he would partake neither of comfort nor food.  Against all temptation he was proof, and close against the door he leaned always, watching only for a means of escape.

“He wants the lad,” said Baas Cogez.  “Good dog! good dog!  I will go over to the lad the first thing at day-dawn.”  For no one but Patrasche knew that Nello had left the hut, and no one but Patrasche divined that Nello had gone to face starvation and misery alone.

The mill kitchen was very warm; great logs crackled and flamed on the hearth; neighbours came in for a glass of wine and a slice of the fat goose baking for supper.  Alois, gleeful and sure of her playmate back on the morrow, bounded and sang and tossed back her yellow hair.  Baas Cogez, in the fulness of his heart, smiled on her through moistened eyes, and spoke of the way in which he would befriend her favourite companion; the house-mother sat with calm, contented face at the spinning-wheel; the cuckoo in the clock chirped mirthful hours.  Amidst it all Patrasche was bidden with a thousand words of welcome to tarry there a cherished guest.  But neither peace nor plenty could allure him where Nello was not.

When the supper smoked on the board, and the voices were loudest and gladdest, and the Christ-child brought choicest gifts to Alois, Patrasche, watching always an occasion, glided out when the door was unlatched by a careless new-comer, and, as swiftly as his weak and tired limbs would bear him sped over the snow in the bitter, black night.  He had only one thought—­to follow Nello.  A human friend might have paused for the pleasant meal, the cheery warmth, the cosey slumber; but that was not the friendship of Patrasche.  He remembered a bygone time, when an old man and a little child had found him sick unto death in the wayside ditch.

Snow had fallen freshly all the evening long; it was now nearly ten; the trail of the boy’s footsteps was almost obliterated.  It took Patrasche long to discover any scent.  When at last he found it, it was lost again quickly, and lost and recovered, and again lost and again recovered, a hundred times or more.