Mrs. Sherman was trembling so
violently that she could scarcely stand, when they reached the hotel.
The clerk who ran out to assure them of the Little Colonel's safety was
loud in his praises of the faithful St. Bernard.
Hero had known many masters. He had been taught to obey many voices.
Many hands had fed and fondled him, but no hand had ever lain quite so
tenderly on his head, as the Little Colonel's. No one had ever looked
into his eyes so gratefully as she, and no voice had ever thrilled him
with as loving tones as hers, as she knelt there beside him, calling him
all the fond endearing names she knew. He understood far better than if
he had been human, that she loved him. Eagerly licking her hands and
wagging his tail, he told her as plainly as a dog can talk that
henceforth he would be one of her best and most faithful of friends.
If petting and praise and devoted attention could spoil a dog, Hero's
head would certainly have been turned that day, for friends and
strangers alike made much of him. A photographer came to take his
picture for the leading daily paper. Before nightfall his story was
repeated in every home in Geneva. No servant in the hotel but took a
personal pride in him or watched his chance to give him a sly sweetmeat
or a caress. But being a dog instead of a human, the attention only made
him the more lovable, for it made him feel that it was a kind world he
lived in and everybody was his friend.
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