32 A DOG OF FLANDERS. and exhaustion, with time and shade and rest passed away, and health and strength returned, and Patrasche staggered up again upon his four stout, tawny legs. Now for many weeks he had been useless, powerless, sore, near to death ; but all this time he had heard no rough word, had felt no harsh touch, but only the pitying murmurs of the little child’s voice and the soothing caress of the old man’s hand. In his sickness they too had grown to care for him, this lonely old man and the little happy child. He had a corner of the hut, with a heap of dry grass for his bed; and they had learned to listen eagerly for his breathing in the dark night, to tell