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There is a touching story told in the Temple Magazine, by Rev. Dr. R. H. Conwell, of a visit to the hospital of St. Bernard, where are kept the wonderful St. Bernard dogs, of whose work of rescuing perishing travelers overtaken by the Alpine storms so many tales are familar to all. "One morning after a storm," says Dr. Conwell, "one of those great, honest creatures came struggling through the snow, hampered greatly in his exhausted condition by the miniature barrel of brandy that hung to his collar. I waded deep in the drifts following the floundering old fellow around the hospice to the kennel, which was a room of considerable size. When the door was opened to the wanderer, the other dogs within set up a chorus of barks and whines, and fell over one another as they crowded about him, and eagerly followed him around with wags of their tails and inquisitive looks in their eyes, which were just as intelligent questionings as so many interrogation points. But the crestfallen beast held his head and tail to the floor, and sneaked about from one corner to the other, and finally lay down panting in a dark niche in the stone basement. He lay there, with his eyes glancing out at the corners, in a most shamefaced way. The young monk called the weary dog by name, and when the beast would not leave his shadowy retreat, the priest tried to induce him come forth by showing him a dish containing scraps of meat. But, hungry as he was. he merely opened his eyes a little wider, rapped the floor once or twice lightly, as he gave a feeble wag to his tail, and then shrank back and seemed not to hear the invitation. The impatient keeper turned away with an angry gesture, and said that the dog would 'get over his sulks very soon.' and that the creature probably felt ashamed that 'he had not found any one.'
"The thoughtless remark shot into my deepest soul with a thrill. That noble old fellow seemed to have felt so bad, so ashamed or so guilty because he had returned without saving any one that he could not eat. It was not his fault that no benighted wanderer had been out benumbed and dying on the mountain road that awful night. He hadl grandly done his duty; but he was just dog enough not to reason so far, and just
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