He never forgot a kindly greeting or a cheering word, and to sit down for a long talk with them (“gas” he called it) was as much his delight as theirs. Other men saw to the welfare of their dogs from a sense of duty and business expediency he saw to the welfare of his as if they were his own children, because he could not help it.
This man had saved his life, which was something but, further, he was the ideal master. But love that was feverish and burning, that was adoration, that was madness, it had taken John Thornton to arouse. With the Judge’s sons, hunting and tramping, it had been a working partnership with the Judge’s grandsons, a sort of pompous guardianship and with the Judge himself, a stately and dignified friendship. This he had never experienced at Judge Miller’s down in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. “Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time.
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