told my dog man to look about for him, but he says he has probably
been killed, with ever so many more, so there is an end of it, and I
call it a mean shame."

"Good for Horace! I told you he'd do it up thoroughly and see the
end of it," said Thorny, as he read that paragraph in the deeply
interesting letter.

"May be the end of _that_ dog, but not of mine. I'll bet he ran away,
and if it _was_ Sanch he'll come home. You see if he doesn't," cried
Ben, refusing to believe that all was over.

"A hundred miles off? Oh, he couldn't find you without help, smart as
he is," answered Thorny, incredulously.

Ben looked discouraged, but Miss Celia cheered him up again by saying:

"Yes, he could. My father had a friend who kept a little dog in Paris,
and the creature found her in Milan and died of fatigue next day. That
was very wonderful, but true, and I've no doubt that if Sanch _is_
alive he will come home. Let us hope so, and be happy while we wait."

"We will!" said the boys, and day after day looked for the wanderer's
return, kept a bone ready in the old place if he should arrive at
night, and shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones when he
came. But weeks passed, and still no Sanch.

Something else happened, however, so absorbing that he was almost
forgotten for a time, and Ben found a way to repay a part of all he
owed his best friend.

Miss Celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and an hour afterward,
as Ben sat in the porch reading, Lita dashed into the yard with the
reins dangling about her legs, the saddle turned round, and one side
covered with black mud, showing that she had been down. For a minute,
Ben's heart stood still, then he flung away his book, ran to the
horse, and saw at once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils and wet
coat, that she must have come a long way and at full speed.

"She has had a fall, but isn't hurt or frightened," thought the boy,
as the pretty creature rubbed her nose against his shoulder, pawed the
ground and champed her bit, as if she tried to tell him all about the
disaster, whatever it was.

"Lita, where's Miss Celia?" he asked, looking straight into the
intelligent eyes, which were troubled but not wild.

Lita threw up her head and neighed loud and clear as if she called her
mistress, and turning, would have gone again if Ben had not caught the
reins and held her.

"All right, we'll find her;" and, pulling off the broken saddle,
kicking away his shoes, a