was ahead, and Rollo scampered after him. Around and around the yard they went, dodging each other until Rollo managed to catch the tip of his brother's fuzzy tail. This did not make Jan stop running, so Rollo was dragged after him through the heaps of snow, rolling over and over but clinging tightly until Jan turned and pounced upon him. They tumbled about, sometimes Jan was on top, sometimes Rollo, and they looked like a huge, yellow spider with eight sturdy, furry legs kicking wildly. At last, panting, they sprawled facing each other with pink tongues hanging from their open mouths and eyes twinkling merrily.

The sound of Brother Antoine's voice made them look up quickly, and they saw two visitors were with him. The dogs were accustomed to visitors, for in the summer many people came to see the Hospice and the dogs, but in the winter the strangers sought refuge from storms.

"Come on, Rollo," called Jan, as the monk and the men with him came down the steps. "There's Brother Antoine. I'll beat you to him! Show him how fast we can run!"

Before Jan had finished, the two puppies were tearing madly toward the monk and the other men. One of these strangers wore a long fur overcoat, the other was a much younger man with kindly grey eyes. Jan won the race, but was going so fast that he could not stop until he bumped against this grey-eyed man, who smiled and leaned down to pat him. Jan squirmed around and touched the hand with his nose, then edged nearer Brother Antoine, who called the dogs about him.

It was a splendid sight to see them cross the enclosure, their great heads held proudly, their eyes beaming with intelligence and kindness, the strong muscles moving beneath the tawny skins, as though each one of them, old and young, understood that the honor of his forefathers must be guarded from any act that would injure it.

Bruno limped slowly, Jan's mother walked sedately beside him, back of them were Jupitiére, Junon, Mars, Vulcan, Pluton, Leon, and among the older dogs came those the same age as Jan and Rollo, followed by the mothers with still smaller puppies. They reached a place in the yard where all of them stopped, and though the man in the fur coat, who stood a distance back of Brother Antoine and the younger man, called to them, the dogs only wagged their tails and did not go any closer.

"You will have to come further," said the monk. "The dogs know that they must not cross to you, for the first thing a puppy learns is to respect the boundary line."

The fur-coated man moved to where Brother Antoine and the other man stood, then the dogs grouped about while the monk talked to the visitors.

"They seem to understand every word you say," the old man spoke. "Their eyes are so intelligent."

"They are living sermons on obedience, loyalty, and self-sacrifice," answered Brother Antoine's gentle voice. "Not one of these dogs would hesitate to risk his life to save his most bitter enemy. That has been their heritage for almost a thousand years, now."

"Natural instinct counts for a great deal," the grey-eyed man spoke as he looked into the upturned faces of the dogs, "but the patient training you give them has developed it."

"The older dogs help us teach the youngsters," went on the monk, whose hand rested on Jan's head. "We send out four dogs each morning—two younger ones and two of the old ones. One pair goes on the trail down the Italian slope toward Aosta, the other travels the Swiss path leading to Martigny. None of them turns back until the last cabin of refuge has been reached, where they look to see if any person is waiting. It is not unusual for the dogs to stay out all night in a hard storm. There have been many instances of their remaining away for two days and nights, without food or shelter, though at any time they could have come home."

"Our guide showed us the cabin," interrupted the older man. "The footprints of the dogs proved they had been there a short time before us. We followed their tracks until the storm covered them. It was a lucky thing the storm did not break earlier."

"The dogs would have found you, Mr. Pixley," the monk replied. "You see, since we have had a telephone from the Hospice, each time travellers start up the trails, we know when they leave Martigny or Aosta and how many are on the way. If they do not reach here in reasonable time, or a storm breaks, we send out the dogs at once. It was much harder in the other days, before we had telephones, for we could not tell how many poor souls were struggling in the snow. The dogs seemed to understand, too, and so they kept on searching until they believed they had found all."

"I would not have attempted this trip had I not been assured that it was too early for a bad storm," said Mr. Pixley. "It is foolhardy, not courageous, to face these mountains in a winter storm. I cannot imagine any one being so rash as to try it, but I suppose many do?"

"During the winter only poor peasants travel the Pass," was Brother Antoine's answer. "They cross from Italy to seek work in the vineyards of France or Switzerland for the summer. When summer is over they return home this way, because it would mean a long and expensive trip by rail, which would take all they have earned for a whole year. An entire family will travel together, and often the youngest will be a babe in its mother's arms."

"I should think they would wait till later in the summer, and take no risks."

"Only the good God knows when a snow storm will overtake one in the Pass of Great St. Bernard," Brother Antoine said. "Even in our summer months, when a light shower of rain falls in the Valley below, it becomes a heavy snow up here, and many people are taken unawares. After winter really begins, in September, the snow is often from seven to ten feet deep and the drifts pile up against the walls of the Hospice as high as the third story roof."

"I had planned to visit Berne," Mr. Pixley spoke now, "but after this sample of your winter weather I have decided to return home to California. I do not enjoy snow storms. We have none where I live, you know."

Brother Antoine nodded. "Yes, I know; but I hope some day you will visit Berne and see Barry. His skin was mounted and is kept in the Museum at Berne. You know his record? He saved forty-two people and died in 1815, just after the terrible storm that cost the lives of almost all the Hospice dogs. Only three St. Bernards lived through those days—Barry, Pluto, and Pallas. A few crawled home to die of exhaustion and cold; the rest lie buried under thousands of feet of snow, but they all died like heroes!"

"A glorious record!" exclaimed the younger man, who had been patting Jan while the others talked. "I remember, when I was a very small boy, that I found a picture in a book. It showed a St. Bernard dog digging a man from the snow, and last night I recognized the picture in that painting which hangs over the fireplace in the refectory."

"It was a gift from a noted artist," replied the monk. "The dogs used to carry a little saddle with a warm shawl, but the extra weight was hard on them, so we do not use the saddle any longer, but a flagon, or wooden keg of white brandy that we call 'kirsch,' is fastened to the collar, together with a bell, so that the tinkling will tell that help is near, even though it may be too dark for any one to see the dog."

"I notice that most of the dogs are short-haired," the grey-eyed man observed. "Such fur as this pup's would afford better protection against the cold. He has a magnificent coat of hair!"

"That is the only point against him," said Brother Antoine. "During the big storm of 1815 we learned that long-haired dogs break down from the snow clinging and freezing like a coat of mail; or the thick hair holding moisture developed pneumonia. We brought Newfoundland dogs to fill the kennels when only three St. Bernards were left, but the long, heavy hair of the new