Anselmo turned his face away, and for a moment did not answer; then he said: “Mother had sent me to the village, and I staid too long there; I had played by the way too as I went. So it was getting dark, and I lost my way, and was cold long before I could reach home; so I sat down, meaning to rest a little, and began to cry, but I do not know anything after that. I think I remember feeling very sleepy, and I suppose I did fall asleep, but I do not know; my father can tell you best, mother, for he found me.”
“No,” said Pierre, “I did not find you, my dear boy; I was close to the foot of the hill, thinking that I should meet you all well, and at home, when I saw something moving on the snow; it stopped; and then I heard St. Bernard’s bark; it seemed wanting my help, and I hastened up the hill. He was coming to meet me, his head high in the air; his step through all the drifting snow was firm and sure, and I saw that he carried a child in his mouth; but when he laid the child at my feet, I saw it was Anselmo, my own son!”
“Then it was St. Bernard, good, kind, St. Bernard,” cried the boy, “who carried me all the way from the top of that high hill, for I am quite sure it was there I sat down.”
Whether this lesson cured the little boy of loitering on his way, I cannot tell. I hope and think it must have done so, but this I know, St. Bernard became more than ever a favourite,—more than ever loved and valued by the whole neighbourhood, and he continued showing his wonderful instinct and bravery, in many ways.
