“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 breed that was part Newfoundland and part St. Bernard proved a failure.  They could not stand the snow storms.  Now, we very rarely keep a long-haired pup.  He is generally sold or presented to some one who will give him kind treatment.”

Jan looked suddenly at Rollo and the other puppies near him.  All except himself had short hair.  Now he remembered his mother’s worried eyes each time the monks had examined him.  He hurried to her side and pushed her with his nose, as he whispered, “Mother, will they send me away because I have long hair?  You know, Brother Antoine said that I was one of the best dogs they have had for a long time!”

“Don’t worry, Jan,” she soothed him.  “Even though your fur is long, you are so strong and so like your father, who had long hair, too, that I am sure you will be kept here.  Hurry, Jan I Brother Antoine is calling you back.”

Jan pushed among the other dogs until he stood again at the monk’s side.  The two strangers looked at Jan, and Brother Antoine touched the pup’s head lovingly.

“His father was one of our best dogs,” the monk spoke.  “But that was not surprising.  He was a direct descendant of Barry.  Four travellers owe their lives to Jan’s father, Rex.”

The little fellow tried not to look too proud as he listened again to the story his mother had told him and Rollo many times.

“Rex was guiding four men to the Hospice after a big storm last Fall.  It was the worst since 1815.  The men told us the story after they reached us.  They had lost all hope, their guide had fallen down a crevasse and they were exhausted when Rex found them.  They knew that their only chance of life was to follow him.  He went ahead, moving very slowly and looking back while he barked to encourage them.  An ice-bridge had formed.  It was hidden by deep snow and they did not understand the danger that Rex knew so well.  The dog went ahead, the men keeping closely behind him.  Half way across he turned and began barking fiercely, and as they drew nearer, he started toward them uttering savage snarls.