of the house. Underneath his master's window he raised his head and
tried to bark. But the wind snatched the muffled sound out of his throat
and hurled it away into the darkness. Once more the still small voice
that terrified even while it soothed pleaded with him to lie down and
rest. Maybe he would have listened now, maybe he would have yielded, if
he had not seen through the living-room curtains the sudden flicker of
firelight on the ceiling. They were not gone--they were only asleep.
Tail wagging strangely as if someone in there had spoken to him, he rose
for the last time and struggled toward the front of the house. At the
corner a gust of wind, waiting in ambush, rushed at him and stopped him
where he was. A moment he waited for it to die down, then dragged
himself to the steps, up the steps, his ruined hind leg hitting each one
like a rag tied in a knot and frozen.
By the big front door he sat down and raised to it his suffering eyes. A
hundred times it had opened to his whim; now in his need it barred his
way. Gathering all his remaining strength, he raised his paw--the paw he
shook hands with--and scratched. There was no sound from within.
Once more--it would be the last time, so heavy had his leg become--he
raised his paw and scratched. Then careless of all things, of master and
mistress, of life and death, he sank down before the door and laid his
head on the sill.
He never knew how it happened. He only knew there was a burst of light
in his eyes, and somebody had picked him up. Then faces were bent close
to him; something hot and gagging was being poured down his throat; a
voice--the most commanding voice in all the world--ordered him to
swallow, swallow. And now he saw before him, as he lay on his side, a
roaring fire whose flames licked and twisted among oak logs piled high
into the chimney.
Strange that he had not known that fire all the time; that he had not
known who these people were. But then he had been on a long journey, and
he was tired, very tired. He must tell them he knew now, let them know
he appreciated what they were doing. He always did that even with
strangers, and these--they were his master, his mistress, his Tommy. He
must----
It was Tommy's shrill voice that broke the silence.
"Look, Papa, look, look! He wagged his tail. He wagged his old tail!"
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Frank of Freedom Hill, by Samuel A. Derieux