So Van sat at the door of his kennel, or in the chicken-yard, watching the gate where Dr. Johns had disappeared, and he grieved and grieved. The days went by, the weeks and the months. Winter passed, the ice and snow melted, and the spring came blithely in. The grass grew, and the days became warm and soft. The April rains fell, and the sun dried the puddles. The blossoms came out of their buds, and turned the peach trees pink and the pear trees white. Mrs. Trimble’s daffodils came up, gay and yellow, and Pete began to help his father in the garden-plot. There were little chickens in the yard, now, but although Van spent his hour there each day, he utterly ignored their existence.
One day was like another to him, as he sat listless in the sunshine, or lay in his kennel when it rained, looking off over the far hills out beyond the fence-palings. He was wishing, wishing, always wishing; wondering if he would ever be a prince again, and if Dr. Johns would ever come through the gate and take him home.
* * * * *
“Good morning, Trimble.”
Mr. Trimble turned his head; he was just setting Van loose among the chickens. A strange man came toward him leading a dog that was to be a new boarder at the College. Together they turned toward the kennels, and were soon busy over plans and directions for the treatment of the latest arrival.
Was it Chance that made Mr. Trimble forget to latch the gate of the chicken-yard? And was it Providence that made the stranger close the outer gate so gently that the spring did not fly back?
An eager brown head pushed the chicken-yard gate just far enough to let a little brown and white body through; a streak like lightning passed from this to the other gate; a click, and the spring did its duty; but Van was outside!
Mr. Trimble looked around, looked again, and through the palings he saw a flying shadow, heading westward down the road into the unknown. It was useless to call. What dog on earth would come back to the call of an alien master, when he had a Betsy to be hunted for the whole world over?
That homing instinct of the dog! Who can understand it? Not we humans, who have our finer senses dulled and blunted by civilization. Neither can we understand the ways of that marvelous little bird, the carrier-pigeon, who will travel hundreds of miles, straight as the arrow flies, back to his home.
Van was free! Free, after eight long months of dull imprisonment! Free! And nothing on earth but death could stop him now. It was a long road, longer than he dreamed, but Betsy was somewhere at the end of it. He would find her and his dear home!