"Dinna say the bittie dog's lost, Maister Traill. It wad gang to the heart o' ma gudemon."

"Havers, woman, he's no' lost." Mr. Traill spoke stoutly enough. "Just go up to the lodge and tell Mr. Brown I'm—weel, I'll just attend to that sma' matter my ainsel'." With that he took a gay face and a set-up air into the lodge to meet Mr. Brown's glowering eye.

"Whaur's the dog, man? I've been deaved aboot 'im a' the day, but I haena seen the sonsie rascal nor the braw collar the Laird Provost gied 'im. An' syne, wi' the folk comin' to spier for 'im an' swarmin' ower the kirkyaird, ye'd think a warlock was aboot. Bobby isna your dog—"

"Haud yoursel', man. Bobby's a famous dog, with the freedom of Edinburgh given to him, and naething will do but Glenormiston must show him to a company o' grand folk at his bit country place. He's sending in a cart by a groom, and I'm to tak' Bobby out and fetch him hame after a braw dinner on gowd plate. The bairns meant weel, but they could no' give Bobby a washing fit for a veesit with the nobeelity. I had to tak' him to a barber for a shampoo."

Mr. Brown roared with laughter. "Man, ye hae mair fule notions i' yer heid. Ye'll hae to pay a shullin' or twa to a barber, an' Bobby'll be sae set up there'll be nae leevin' wi' 'im. Sit ye doon an' tell me aboot the collar, man."

"I can no' stop now to wag my tongue. Here's the gude-wife. I'll just help her get you awa' to your bed."

It was dark when he returned to the gate, and the Castle wore its luminous crown. The lights from the street lamps flickered on the up-turned, anxious faces. Some of the children had begun to weep. Women offered loud suggestions. There were surmises that Bobby had been run over by a cart in the street, and angry conjectures that he had been stolen. Then Ailie wailed:

"Oh, Maister Traill, the bittie dog's deid!"

"Havers, lassie! I'm ashamed o' ye for a fulish bairn. Bobby's no' deid. Nae doot he's amang the stanes i' the kirkyaird. He's aye scramblin' aboot for vermin an' pussies, an' may hae hurt himsel', an' ye a' ken the bonny wee wadna cry oot i' the kirkyaird. Noo, get to wark, an' dinna stand there greetin' an' waggin' yer tongues. The mithers an' bairns maun juist gang hame an' stap their havers, an' licht a' the candles an' cruisey lamps i' their hames, an' set them i' the windows aboon the kirkyaird. Greyfriars is murky by the ordinar', an' ye couldna find a coo there wi'oot the lichts."

The crowd suddenly melted away, so eager were they all to have a hand in helping to find the community pet. Then Mr. Traill turned to the boys.

"Hoo mony o' ye laddies hae the bull's-eye lanterns?"

Ah! not many in the old buildings around the kirkyard. These japanned tin aids to dark adventures on the golf links on autumn nights cost a sixpence and consumed candles. Geordie Ross and Sandy McGregor, coming up arm in arm, knew of other students and clerks who still had these cherished toys of boyhood. With these heroes in the lead a score or more of laddies swarmed into the kirkyard.

The tenements were lighted up as they had not been since nobles held routs and balls there. Enough candles and oil were going up in smoke to pay for wee Bobby's license all over again, and enough love shone in pallid little faces that peered into the dusk to light the darkest corner in the heart of the world. Rays from the bull's-eyes were thrown into every nook and cranny. Very small laddies insinuated themselves into the narrowest places. They climbed upon high vaults and let themselves down in last year's burdocks and tangled vines. It was all done in silence, only Mr. Traill speaking at all. He went everywhere with the searchers, and called:

"Whaur are ye, Bobby? Come awa' oot, laddie!"

But no gleaming ghost of a tousled dog was conjured by the voice of affection. The tiniest scratching or lowest moaning could have been heard, for the warm spring evening was very still, and there were, as yet, few leaves to rustle. Sleepy birds complained at being disturbed on their perches, and rodents could be heard scampering along their runways. The entire kirkyard was explored, then the interior of the two kirks. Mr. Traill went up to the lodge for the keys, saying, optimistically, that a sexton might unwittingly have locked Bobby in. Young men with lanterns went through the courts of the tenements, around the Grassmarket, and under the arches of the bridge. Laddies dropped from the wall and hunted over Heriot's Hospital grounds to Lauriston market. Tammy, poignantly conscious of being of no practical use, sat on Auld Jock's grave, firm in the conviction that Bobby would return to that spot his ainsel' And Ailie, being only a maid, whose portion it was to wait and weep, lay across the window-sill, on the pediment of the tomb, a limp little figure of woe.

Mr. Traill's heart was full of misgiving. Nothing but death or stone walls could keep that little creature from this beloved grave. But, in thinking of stone walls, he never once thought of the Castle. Away over to the east, in Broughton market, when the garrison marched away and at Lauriston when they returned, Mr. Traill did not know that the soldiers had been out of the city. Busy in the lodge Mistress Jeanie had not seen them go by the kirkyard, and no one else, except Mr. Brown, knew the fascination that military uniforms, marching and music had for wee Bobby. A fog began to drift in from the sea. Suddenly the grass was sheeted and the tombs blurred. A curtain of gauze seemed to be hung before the lighted tenements. The Castle head vanished, and the sounds of the drum and bugle of the tattoo came down muffled, as if through layers of wool. The lights of the bull's-eyes were ruddy discs that cast no rays. Then these were smeared out to phosphorescent glows, like the "spunkies" that everybody in Scotland knew came out to dance in old kirkyards.

It was no' canny. In the smother of the fog some of the little boys were lost, and cried out. Mr. Traill got them up to the gate and sent them home in bands, under the escort of the students. Mistress Jeanie was out by the wicket. Mr. Brown was asleep, and she "couldna thole it to sit there snug." When a fog-horn moaned from the Firth she broke into sobbing. Mr. Traill comforted her as best he could by telling her a dozen plans for the morning. By feeling along the wall he got her to the lodge, and himself up to his cozy dining-rooms.

For the first time since Queen Mary the gate of the historic garden of the Greyfriars was left on the latch. And it was so that a little dog, coming home in the night might not be shut out.



XI.

It was more than two hours after he left Bobby in Queen Margaret's Chapel that the sergeant turned into the officers' mess-room and tried to get an orderly to take a message to the captain who had noticed the little dog in the barracks. He wished to report that Bobby could not be found, and to be excused to continue the search.

He had to wait by the door while the toast to her Majesty was proposed and the band in the screened gallery broke into "God Save the Queen"; and when the music stopped the bandmaster came in for the usual compliments.

The evening was so warm and still, although it was only mid-April, that a glass-paneled door, opening on the terrace, was set ajar for air. In the confusion of movement and talk no one noticed a little black mop of a muzzle that was poked through the aperture. From the outer darkness Bobby looked in on the score or more of men doubtfully, ready for instant disappearance on the slightest alarm. Desperate was the emergency, forlorn the hope that had brought him there. At every turn his efforts to escape from the Castle had been baffled. He had been imprisoned by drummer boys and young recruits in the gymnasium, detained in the hospital, captured in the canteen.

Bobby went through all his pretty tricks for the lads, and then begged to be let go. Laughed at, romped with, dragged back, thrown into the swimming-pool, expected to play and perform for them, he rebelled at last. He scarred the door with his claws, and he howled so dismally that, hearing an orderly corporal coming, they turned him out in a rough haste that terrified him. In the old Banqueting Hall on the Palace Yard, that was used as a hospital and dispensary, he went through that travesty of joy again, in hope of the reward.

Sharply rebuked and put out of the hospital, at last, because of his destructive clawing and mournful howling, Bobby dashed across the Palace Yard and into a crowd of good-humored soldiers who lounged in the canteen. Rising on his hind legs to beg for attention and indulgence, he was taken unaware from behind by an admiring soldier who wanted to romp with him. Quite desperate by that time, he snapped at the hand of his captor and sprang away into the first dark opening. Frightened by the man's cry of pain, and by the calls and scuffling search for him without, he slunk to the farthest corner of a dungeon of the Middle Ages, under the Royal Lodging.

When the hunt for him ceased, Bobby slipped out of hiding and made his way around the sickle-shaped ledge of rock, and under the guns of the half-moon battery, to the outer gate. Only a cat, a fox, or a low, weasel-like dog could have done it. There were many details that would have enabled the observant little creature to recognize this barrier as the place where he had come in. Certainly he attacked it with fury, and on the guards he lavished every art of appeal that he possessed. But there he was bantered, and a feint was made of shutting him up in the guard-house as a disorderly person. With a heart-broken cry he escaped his tormentors, and made his way back, under the guns, to the citadel.

His confidence in the good intentions of men shaken, Bobby took to furtive ways. Avoiding lighted buildings and voices, he sped from shadow to shadow and explored the walls of solid masonry. Again and again he returned to the postern behind the armory, but the small back gate that gave to the cliff was not opened. Once he scrambled up to a loophole in the fortifications and looked abroad at the scattered lights of the city set in the void of night. But there, indeed, his stout heart failed him.

It was not long before Bobby discovered that he was being pursued. A number of soldiers and drummer boys were out hunting for him, contritely enough, when the situation was explained by the angry sergeant. Wherever he went voices and footsteps followed. Had the sergeant gone alone and called in familiar speech, "Come awa' oot, Bobby!" he would probably have run to the man. But there were so many calls—in English, in Celtic, and in various dialects of the Lowlands—that the little dog dared not trust them. From place to place he was driven by fear, and when the calling stopped and the footsteps no longer followed, he lay for a time where he could watch the postern. A moment after he gave up the vigil there the little back gate was opened.

Desperation led him to take another chance with men. Slipping into the shadow of the old Governor's House, the headquarters of commissioned officers, on the terrace above the barracks, he lay near the open door to the mess-room, listening and watching.

The pretty ceremony of toasting the bandmaster brought all the company about the table again, and the polite pause in the conversation, on his exit, gave an opportunity for the captain to speak of Bobby before the sergeant could get his message delivered.

"Gentlemen, your indulgence for a moment, to drink another toast to a little dog that is said to have slept on his master's grave in Greyfriars churchyard for more than eight years. Sergeant Scott, of the Royal Engineers, vouches for the story and will present the hero."

The sergeant came forward then with the word that Bobby could not be found. He was somewhere in the Castle, and had made persistent and frantic efforts to get out. Prevented at every turn, and forcibly held in various places by well-meaning but blundering soldiers, he had been frightened into hiding.

Bobby heard every word, and he must have understood that he himself was under discussion. Alternately hopeful and apprehensive, he scanned each face in the room that came within range of his vision, until one arrested and drew him. Such faces, full of understanding, love and compassion for dumb animals, are to be found among men, women and children, in any company and in every corner of the world. Now, with the dog's instinct for the dog-lover, Bobby made his way about the room unnoticed, and set his short, shagged paws up on this man's knee.

"Bless my soul, gentlemen, here's the little dog now, and a beautiful specimen of the drop-eared Skye he is. Why didn't you say that the 'bittie' dog was of the Highland breed, Sergeant? You may well believe any extravagant tale you may hear of the fidelity and affection of the Skye terrier."

And with that wee Bobby was set upon the polished table, his own silver image glimmering among the reflections of candles and old plate. He kept close under the hand of his protector, but waiting for the moment favorable to his appeal. The company crowded around with eager interest, while the man of expert knowledge and love of dogs talked about Bobby.

"You see he's a well-knit little rascal, long and low, hardy and strong. His ancestors were bred for bolting foxes and wildcats among the rocky headlands of the subarctic islands. The intelligence, courage and devotion of dogs of this breed can scarcely be overstated. There is some far away crossing here that gives this one a greater beauty and grace and more engaging manners, making him a 'sport' among rough farm dogs—but look at the length and strength of the muzzle. He's as determined as the deil. You would have to break his neck before you could break his purpose. For love of his master he would starve, or he would leap to his death without an instant's hesitation."

All this time the man had been stroking Bobby's head and neck. Now, feeling the collar under the thatch, he slipped it out and brought the brass plate up to the light.

"Propose your toast to Greyfriars Bobby, Captain. His story is vouched for by no less a person than the Lord Provost. The 'bittie' dog seems to have won a sort of canine Victoria Cross."

The toast was drunk standing, and, a cheer given. The company pressed close to examine the collar and to shake Bobby's lifted paw. Then, thinking the moment had come, Bobby rose in the begging attitude, prostrated himself before them, and uttered a pleading cry. His new friend assured him that he would be taken home.

"Bide a wee, Bobby. Before he goes I want you all to see his beautiful eyes. In most breeds of dogs with the veil you will find the hairs of the face discolored by tears, but the Skye terrier's are not, and his eyes are living jewels, as sunny a brown as cairngorms in pebble brooches, but soft and deep and with an almost human intelligence."

For the third time that day Bobby's veil was pushed back. One shocked look by this lover of dogs, and it was dropped. "Get him back to that grave, man, or he's like to die. His eyes are just two cairngorms of grief."

In the hush that fell upon the company the senior officer spoke sharply: "Take him down at once, Sergeant. The whole affair is most unfortunate, and you will please tender my apologies at the churchyard and the restaurant, as well as your own, and I will see the Lord Provost."

The military salute was given to Bobby when he leaped from the table at the sergeant's call: "Come awa', Bobby. I'll tak' ye to Auld Jock i' the kirkyaird noo."

He stepped out onto the lawn to wait for his pass. Bobby stood at his feet, quivering with impatience to be off, but trusting in the man's given word. The upper air was clear, and the sky studded with stars. Twenty minutes before the May Light, that guided the ships into the Firth, could be seen far out on the edge of the ocean, and in every direction the lamps of the city seemed to fall away in a shower of sparks, as from a burst meteor. But now, while the stars above were as numerous and as brilliant as before, the lights below had vanished. As the sergeant looked, the highest ones expired in the rising fog. The Island Rock appeared to be sinking in a waveless sea of milk.

A startled exclamation from the sergeant brought other men out on the terrace to see it. The senior officer withheld the pass in his hand, and scouted the idea of the sergeant's going down into the city. As the drum began to beat the tattoo and the bugle to rise on a crescendo of lovely notes, soldiers swarmed toward the barracks. Those who had been out in the town came running up the roadway into the Castle, talking loudly of adventures they had had in the fog. The sergeant looked down at anxious Bobby, who stood agitated and straining as at a leash, and said that he preferred to go.

"Impossible! A foolish risk, Sergeant, that I am unwilling you should take. Edinburgh is too full of pitfalls for a man to be going about on such a night. Our guests will sleep in the Castle, and it will be safer for the little dog to remain until morning."

Bobby did not quite understand this good English, but the excited talk and the delay made him uneasy. He whimpered piteously. He lay across the sergeant's feet, and through his boots the man could feel the little creature's heart beat. Then he rose and uttered his pleading cry. The sergeant stooped and patted the shaggy head consolingly, and tried to explain matters.

"Be a gude doggie noo. Dinna fash yersel' aboot what canna be helped. I canna tak' ye to the kirkyaird the nicht."

"I'll take charge of Bobby, Sergeant." The dog-loving guest ran out hastily, but, with a wild cry of reproach and despair, Bobby was gone.

The group of soldiers who had been out on the cliff were standing in the postern a moment to look down at the opaque flood that was rising around the rock. They felt some flying thing sweep over their feet and caught a silvery flash of it across the promenade. The sergeant cried to them to stop the dog, and he and the guest were out in time to see Bobby go over the precipice.

For a time the little dog lay in a clump of hazel above the fog, between two terrors. He could see the men and the lights moving along the top of the cliff, and he could hear the calls. Some one caught a glimpse of him, and the sergeant lay down on the edge of the precipice and talked to him, saying every kind and foolish thing he could think of to persuade Bobby to come back. Then a drummer boy was tied to a rope and let down to the ledge to fetch him up. But at that, without any sound at all, Bobby dropped out of sight.

Through the smother came the loud moaning of fog-horns in the Firth. Although nothing could be seen, and sounds were muffled as if the ears of the world were stuffed with wool, odors were held captive and mingled in confusion. There was nothing to guide a little dog's nose, everything to make him distrust his most reliable sense. The smell of every plant on the crag was there; the odors of leather, of paint, of wood, of iron, from the crafts shops at the base. Smoke from chimneys in the valley was mixed with the strong scent of horses, hay and grain from the street of King's Stables. There was the smell of furry rodents, of nesting birds, of gushing springs, of the earth itself, and something more ancient still, as of burned-out fires in the Huge mass of trap-rock.

Everything warned Bobby to lie still in safety until morning and the world was restored to its normal aspects. But ah! in the highest type of man and dog, self-sacrifice, and not self-preservation, is the first law. A deserted grave cried to him across the void, the anguish of protecting love urged him on to take perilous chances. Falling upon a narrow shelf of rock, he had bounded off and into a thicket of thorns. Bruised and shaken and bewildered, he lay there for a time and tried to get his bearings.

Bobby knew only that the way was downward. He put out a paw and felt for the edge of the shelf. A thorn bush rooted below tickled his nose. He dropped into that and scrambled out again. Loose earth broke under his struggles and carried him swiftly down to a new level. He slipped in the wet moss of a spring before he heard the tinkle of the water, lost his foothold, and fell against a sharp point of rock. The shadowy spire of a fir-tree looming in a parting of the vapor for an instant, Bobby leaped to the ledge upon which it was rooted.

Foot by foot he went down, with no guidance at all. It is the nature of such long, low, earth dogs to go by leaps and bounds like foxes, calculating distances nicely when they can see, and tearing across the roughest country with the speed of the wild animals they hunt. And where the way is very steep they can scramble up or down any declivity that is at a lesser angle than the perpendicular. Head first they go downward, setting the fore paws forward, the claws clutching around projections and in fissures, the weight hung from the stout hindquarters, the body flattened on the earth.

Thus Bobby crept down steep descents in safety, but his claws were broken in crevices and his feet were torn and pierced by splinters of rock and thorns. Once he went some distance into a cave and had to back up and out again. And then a promising slope shelving under suddenly, where he could not retreat, he leaped, turned over and over in the air, and fell stunned. His heart filled with fear of the unseen before him, the little dog lay for a long time in a clump of whins. He may even have dozed and dreamed, to be awakened with starts by his misery of longing, and once by the far-away barking of a dog. It came up deadened, as if from fathoms below. He stood up and listened, but the sound was not repeated. His lacerated feet burned and throbbed; his bruised muscles had begun to stiffen, so that every movement was a pain.

In these lower levels there was more smoke, that smeared out and thickened the mist. Suddenly a breath of air parted the fog as if it were a torn curtain. Like a shot Bobby went down the crag, leaping from rock to rock, scrambling under thorns and hazel shrubs, dropping over precipitous ledges, until he looked down a sheer fall on which not even a knot of grass could find a foothold. He took the leap instantly, and his thick fleece saved him from broken bones; but when he tried to get up again his body was racked with pain and his hind legs refused to serve him.

Turning swiftly, he snarled and bit, at them in angry disbelief that his good little legs should play false with his stout heart. Then he quite forgot his pain, for there was the sharp ring of iron on an anvil and the dull glow of a forge fire, where a smith was toiling in the early hours of the morning. A clever and resourceful little dog, Bobby made shift to do without legs. Turning on his side, he rolled down the last slope of Castle Rock. Crawling between two buildings and dropping from the terrace on which they stood, he fell into a little street at the west end and above the Grassmarket.

Here the odors were all of the stables. He knew the way, and that it was still downward. The distance he had to go was a matter of a quarter of a mile, or less, and the greater part of it was on the level, through the sunken valley of the Grassmarket. But Bobby had literally to drag himself now; and he had still to pull him self up by his fore paws over the wet and greasy cobblestones of Candlemakers Row. Had not the great leaves of the gate to the kirkyard been left on the latch, he would have had to lie there in the alcove, with his nose under the bars, until morning. But the gate gave way to his push, and so, he dragged himself through it and around the kirk, and stretched himself on Auld Jock's grave.

It was the birds that found him there in the misty dawn. They were used to seeing Bobby scampering about, for the little watchman was awake and busy as early as the feathered dwellers in the kirkyard. But, in what looked to be a wet and furry door-mat left out overnight on the grass, they did not know him at all. The throstles and skylarks were shy of it, thinking it might be alive. The wrens fluffed themselves, scolded it, and told it to get up. The blue titmice flew over it in a flock again and again, with much sweet gossiping, but they did not venture nearer. A redbreast lighted on the rose bush that marked Auld Jock's grave, cocked its head knowingly, and warbled a little song, as much as to say: "If it's alive that will wake it up."

As Bobby did not stir, the robin fluttered down, studied him from all sides, made polite inquiries that were not answered, and concluded that it would be quite safe to take a silver hair for nest lining. Then, startled by the animal warmth or by a faint, breathing movement, it dropped the shining trophy and flew away in a shrill panic. At that, all the birds set up such an excited crying that they waked Tammy.

From the rude loophole of a window that projected from the old Cunzie Neuk, the crippled laddie could see only the shadowy tombs and the long gray wall of the two kirks, through the sunny haze. But he dropped his crutches over, and climbed out onto the vault. Never before had Bobby failed to hear that well-known tap-tap-tapping on the graveled path, nor failed to trot down to meet it with friskings of welcome. But now he lay very still, even when a pair of frail arms tried to lift his dead weight to a heaving breast, and Tammy's cry of woe rang through the kirkyard. In a moment Ailie and Mistress Jeanie were in the wet grass beside them, half a hundred casements flew open, and the piping voices of tenement bairns cried-down:

"Did the bittie doggie come hame?"

Oh yes, the bittie doggie had come hame, indeed, but down such perilous heights as none of them dreamed; and now in what a woeful plight!

Some murmur of the excitement reached an open dormer of the Temple tenements, where Geordie Ross had slept with one ear of the born doctor open. Snatching up a case of first aids to the injured, he ran down the twisting stairs to the Grassmarket, up to the gate, and around the kirk, to find a huddled group of women and children weeping over a limp little bundle of a senseless dog. He thrust a bottle of hartshorn under the black muzzle, and with a start and a moan Bobby came back to consciousness.

"Lay him down flat and stop your havers," ordered the business-like, embryo medicine man. "Bobby's no' dead. Laddie, you're a braw soldier for holding your ain feelings, so just hold the wee dog's head." Then, in the reassuring dialect: "Hoots, Bobby, open the bit mou' noo, an' tak' the medicine like a mannie!" Down the tiny red cavern of a throat Geordie poured a dose that galvanized the small creature into life.

"Noo, then, loup, ye bonny rascal!"

Bobby did his best to jump at Geordie's bidding. He was so glad to be at home and to see all these familiar faces of love that he lifted himself on his fore paws, and his happy heart almost put the power to loup into his hind legs. But when he tried to stand up he cried out with the pains and sank down again, with an apologetic and shamefaced look that was worthy of Auld Jock himself. Geordie sobered on the instant.

"Weel, now, he's been hurt. We'll just have to see what ails the sonsie doggie." He ran his hand down the parting in the thatch to discover if the spine had been injured. When he suddenly pinched the ball of a hind toe Bobby promptly resented it by jerking his head around and looking at him reproachfully. The bairns were indignant, too, but Geordie grinned cheerfully and said: "He's no' paralyzed, at ony rate." He turned as footsteps were heard coming hastily around the kirk.

"A gude morning to you, Mr. Traill. Bobby may have been run over by a cart and got internal injuries, but I'm thinking it's just sprains and bruises from a bad fall. He was in a state of collapse, and his claws are as broken and his toes as torn as if he had come down Castle Rock."

This was such an extravagant surmise that even the anxious landlord smiled. Then he said, drily:

"You're a braw laddie, Geordie, and gudehearted, but you're no' a doctor yet, and, with your leave, I'll have my ain medical man tak' a look at Bobby."

"Ay, I would," Geordie agreed, cordially. "It's worth four shullings to have your mind at ease, man. I'll just go up to the lodge and get a warm bath ready, to tak' the stiffness out of his muscles, and brew a tea from an herb that wee wild creatures know all about and aye hunt for when they're ailing."

Geordie went away gaily, to take disorder and evil smells into Mistress Jeanie's shining kitchen.

No sooner had the medical student gone up to the lodge, and the children had been persuaded to go home to watch the proceedings anxiously from the amphitheater of the tenement windows, than the kirkyard gate was slammed back noisily by a man in a hurry. It was the sergeant who, in the splendor of full uniform, dropped in the wet grass beside Bobby.

"Lush! The sma' dog got hame, an' is still leevin'. Noo, God forgie me—"

"Eh, man, what had you to do with Bobby's misadventure?"

Mr. Traill fixed an accusing eye on the soldier, remembering suddenly his laughing threat to kidnap Bobby. The story came out in a flood of remorseful words, from Bobby's following of the troops so gaily into the Castle to his desperate escape over the precipice.

"Noo," he said, humbly, "gin it wad be ony satisfaction to ye, I'll gang up to the Castle an' put on fatigue dress, no' to disgrace the unifarm o' her Maijesty, an' let ye tak' me oot on the Burghmuir an' gie me a gude lickin'."

Mr. Traill shrugged his shoulders. "Naething would satisfy me, man, but to get behind you and kick you over the Firth into the Kingdom of Fife."

He turned an angry back on the sergeant and helped Geordie lift Bobby onto Mrs. Brown's braided hearth-rug and carry the improvised litter up to the lodge. In the kitchen the little dog was lowered into a hot bath, dried, and rubbed with liniments under his fleece. After his lacerated feet had been cleaned and dressed with healing ointments and tied up, Bobby was wrapped in Mistress Jeanie's best flannel petticoat and laid on the hearth-rug, a very comfortable wee dog, who enjoyed his breakfast of broth and porridge.

Mr. Brown, hearing the commotion and perishing of curiosity, demanded that some one should come and help him out of bed. As no attention was paid to him he managed to get up himself and to hobble out to the kitchen just as Mr. Traill's ain medical man came in. Bobby's spine was examined again, the tail and toes nipped, the heart tested, and all the soft parts of his body pressed and punched, in spite of the little dog's vigorous objections to these indignities.

"Except for sprains and bruises the wee dog is all right. Came down Castle Crag in the fog, did he? He's a clever and plucky little chap, indeed, and deserving of a hero medal to hang on the Lord Provost's collar. You've done very well, Mr. Ross. Just take as good care of him for a week or so and he could do the gallant deed again."

Mr. Brown listened to the story of Bobby's adventures with a mingled look of disgust at the foolishness of men, pride in Bobby's prowess, and resentment at having been left out of the drama of the night before. "It's maist michty, noo, Maister Traill, that ye wad tak' the leeberty o' leein' to me," he complained.

"It was a gude lee or a bad nicht for an ill man. Geordie will tell you that a mind at ease is worth four shullings, and I'm charging you naething. Eh, man, you're deeficult to please." As he went out into the kirkyard Mr. Traill stopped to reflect on a strange thing: "'You've done very well, Mr. Ross.' Weel, weel, how the laddies do grow up! But I'm no' going to admit it to Geordie."

Another thought, over which he chuckled, sent him off to find the sergeant. The soldier was tramping gloomily about in the wet, to the demoralization of his beautiful boots.

"Man, since a stormy nicht eight years ago last November I've aye been looking for a bigger weel meaning fule than my ain sel'. You're the man, so if you'll just shak' hands we'll say nae more about it."

He did not explain this cryptic remark, but he went on to assure the sorry soldier that Bobby had got no serious hurt and would soon be as well as ever. They had turned toward the gate when a stranger with a newspaper in his hand peered mildly around the kirk and inquired "Do ye ken whaur's the sma' dog, man?" As Mr. Traill continued to stare at him he explained, patiently: "It's Greyfriars Bobby, the bittie terrier the Laird Provost gied the collar to. Hae ye no' seen 'The Scotsman' the day?"

The landlord had not. And there was the story, Bobby's, name heading quite a quarter of a broad column of fine print, and beginning with: "A very singular and interesting occurrence was brought to light in the Burgh court by the hearing of a summons in regard to a dog tax." Bobby was a famous dog, and Mr. Traill came in for a goodly portion of reflected glory. He threw up his hands in dismay.

"It's all over the toon, Sergeant." Turning to the stranger, he assured him that Bobby was not to be seen. "He hurt himsel' coming down Castle Rock in the nicht, and is in the lodge with the caretaker, wha's fair ill. Hoo do I ken?" testily. "Weel, man, I'm Mr. Traill."

He saw at once how unwise was that admission, for he had to shake hands with the cordial stranger. And after dismissing him there was another at the gate who insisted upon going up to the lodge to see the little hero. Here was a state of things, indeed, that called upon all the powers of the resourceful landlord.

"All the folk in Edinburgh will be coming, and the poor woman be deaved with their spiering." And then he began to laugh. "Did you ever hear o' sic a thing as poetic justice, Sergeant? Nae, it's no' the kind you'll get in the courts of law. Weel, it's poetic justice for a birkie soldier, wha claims the airth and the fullness thereof, to have to tak' his orders from a sma' shopkeeper. Go up to the police office in St. Gila now and ask for an officer to stand at the gate here to answer questions, and to keep the folk awa' from the lodge."

He stood guard himself, and satisfied a score of visitors before the sergeant came back, and there was another instance of poetic justice, in the crestfallen Burgh policeman who had been sent with instructions to take his orders from the delighted landlord.

"Eh, Davie, it's a lang lane that has nae turning. Ye're juist to stand here a' the day an' say to ilka body wha spiers for the dog: 'Ay, sir, Greyfriars Bobby's been leevin' i' the kirkyaird aucht years an' mair, an' Maister Traill's aye fed 'im i' the dining-rooms. Ay, the case was dismissed i' the Burgh coort. The Laird Provost gied a collar to the bit Skye because there's a meddlin' fule or twa amang the Burgh police wha'd be takin' 'im up. The doggie's i' the lodge wi' the caretaker, wha's fair ill, an' he canna be seen the day. But gang aroond the kirk an' ye can see Auld Jock's grave that he's aye guarded. There's nae stave to it, but it's neist to the fa'en table-tomb o' Mistress Jean Grant. A gude day to ye.' Hae ye got a' that, man? Weel, cheer up. Yell hae to say it nae mair than a thousand times or twa, atween noo an' nichtfa'."

He went away laughing at the penance that was laid upon his foe. The landlord felt so well satisfied with the world that he took another jaunty crack at the sergeant: "By richts, man, you ought to go to gaol, but I'll just fine you a shulling a month for Bobby's natural lifetime, to give the wee soldier a treat of a steak or a chop once a week."

Hands were struck heartily on the bargain, and the two men parted good friends. Now, finding Ailie dropping tears in the dish-water, Mr. Traill sent her flying down to the lodge with instructions to make herself useful to Mrs. Brown. Then he was himself besieged in his place of business by folk of high and low degree who were disappointed by their failure to see Bobby in the kirkyard. Greyfriars Dining-Rooms had more distinguished visitors in a day than they had had in all the years since Auld Jock died and a little dog fell there at the landlord's feet "a' but deid wi' hunger."

Not one of all the grand folk who, inquired for Bobby at the kirkyard or at the restaurant got a glimpse of him that day. But after they were gone the tenement dwellers came up to the gate again, as they had gathered the evening before, and begged that they might just tak' a look at him and his braw collar. "The bonny bit is the bairns' ain doggie, an' the Laird Provost himsel' told 'em he wasna to be neglectet," was one mother's plea.

Ah! that was very true. To the grand folk who had come to see him, Bobby was only a nine-days' wonder. His story had touched the hearts of all orders of society. For a time strangers would come to see him, and then they would forget all about him or remember him only fitfully. It was to these poor people around the kirkyard, themselves forgotten by the more fortunate, that the little dog must look for his daily meed of affection and companionship. Mr. Traill spoke to them kindly.

"Bide a wee, noo, an' I'll fetch the doggie doon."

Bobby had slept blissfully nearly all the day, after his exhausting labors and torturing pains. But with the sunset bugle he fretted to be let out. Ailie had wept and pleaded, Mrs. Brown had reasoned with him, and Mr. Brown had scolded, all to the end of persuading him to sleep in "the hoose the nicht." But when no one was watching him Bobby crawled from his rug and dragged himself to the door. He rapped the floor with his tail in delight when Mr. Traill came in and bundled him up on the rug, so he could lie easily, and carried him down to the gate.

For quite twenty minutes these neighbors and friends of Bobby filed by silently, patted the shaggy little head, looked at the grand plate with Bobby's and the Lord Provost's names upon it, and believed their own wondering een. Bobby wagged his tail and lolled his tongue, and now and then he licked the hand of a baby who had to be lifted by a tall brother to see him. Shy kisses were dropped on Bobby's head by toddling bairns, and awkward caresses by rough laddies. Then they all went home quietly, and Mr. Traill carried the little dog around the kirk.

And there, ah! so belated, Auld Jock's grave bore its tribute of flowers. Wreaths and nosegays, potted daffodils and primroses and daisies, covered the sunken mound so that some of them had to be moved to make room for Bobby. He sniffed and sniffed at them, looked up inquiringly at Mr. Traill; and then snuggled down contentedly among the blossoms. He did not understand their being there any more than he understood the collar about which everybody made such a to-do. The narrow band of leather would disappear under his thatch again, and would be unnoticed by the casual passer-by; the flowers would fade and never be so lavishly renewed; but there was another more wonderful gift, now, that would never fail him.

At nightfall, before the drum and bugle sounded the tattoo to call the scattered garrison in the Castle, there took place a loving ceremony that was never afterward omitted as long as Bobby lived. Every child newly come to the tenements learned it, every weanie lisped it among his first words. Before going to bed each bairn opened a casement. Sometimes a candle was held up—a little star of love, glimmering for a moment on the dark; but always there was a small face peering into the melancholy kirkyard. In midsummer, and at other seasons if the moon rose full and early and the sky was clear, Bobby could be seen on the grave. And when he recovered from these hurts he trotted about, making the circuit below the windows. He could not speak there, because he had been forbidden, but he could wag his tail and look up to show his friendliness. And whether the children saw him or not they knew he was always there after sunset, keeping watch and ward, and "lanely" because his master had gone away to heaven; and so they called out to him sweetly and clearly:

"A gude nicht to ye, Bobby."



XII.

In one thing Mr. Traill had been mistaken: the grand folk did not forget Bobby. At the end of five years the leal Highlander was not only still remembered, but he had become a local celebrity.

Had the grave of his haunting been on the Pentlands or in one of the outlying cemeteries of the city Bobby must have been known to few of his generation, and to fame not at all. But among churchyards Greyfriars was distinguished. One of the historic show-places of Edinburgh, and in the very heart of the Old Town, it was never missed by the most hurried tourist, seldom left unvisited, from year to year, by the oldest resident. Names on its old tombs had come to mean nothing to those who read them, except as they recalled memorable records of love, of inspiration, of courage, of self-sacrifice. And this being so, it touched the imagination to see, among the marbles that crumbled toward the dust below, a living embodiment of affection and fidelity. Indeed, it came to be remarked, as it is remarked to-day, although four decades have gone by, that no other spot in Greyfriars was so much cared for as the grave of a man of whom nothing was known except that the life and love of a little dog was consecrated to his memory.

At almost any hour Bobby might be found there. As he grew older he became less and less willing to be long absent, and he got much of his exercise by nosing about among the neighboring thorns. In fair weather he took his frequent naps on the turf above his master, or he sat on the fallen table-tomb in the sun. On foul days he watched the grave from under the slab, and to that spot he returned from every skirmish against the enemy. Visitors stopped to speak to him. Favored ones were permitted to read the inscription on his collar and to pat his head. It seemed, therefore, the most natural thing in the world when the greatest lady in England, beside the Queen, the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, came all the way from London to see Bobby.

Except that it was the first Monday in June, and Founder's Day at Heriot's Hospital, it was like any other day of useful work, innocent pleasure, and dreaming dozes on Auld Jock's grave to wee Bobby. As years go, the shaggy little Skye was an old dog, but he was not feeble or blind or unhappy. A terrier, as a rule, does not live as long as more sluggish breeds of dogs, but, active to the very end, he literally wears himself out tearing around, and then goes, little soldier, very suddenly, dying gallantly with his boots on.

In the very early mornings of the northern summer Bobby woke with the birds, a long time before the reveille was sounded from the Castle. He scampered down to the circling street of tombs at once, and not until the last prowler had been dispatched, or frightened into his burrow, did he return for a brief nap on Auld Jock's grave.

All about him the birds fluttered and hopped and gossiped and foraged, unafraid. They were used, by this time, to seeing the little dog lying motionless, his nose on his paws. Often some tidbit of food lay there, brought for Bobby by a stranger. He had learned that a Scotch bun dropped near him was a feast that brought feathered visitors about and won their confidence and cheerful companionship. When he awoke he lay there lolling and blinking, following the blue rovings of the titmice and listening to the foolish squabbles of the sparrows and the shrewish scoldings of the wrens. He always started when a lark sprang at his feet and a cataract of melody tumbled from the sky.

But, best of all, Bobby loved a comfortable and friendly robin redbreast—not the American thrush that is called a robin, but the smaller Old World warbler. It had its nest of grass and moss and feathers, and many a silver hair shed by Bobby, low in a near-by thorn bush. In sweet and plaintive talking notes it told its little dog companion all about the babies that had left the nest and the new brood that would soon be there. On the morning of that wonderful day of the Grand Leddy's first coming, Bobby and the redbreast had a pleasant visit together before the casements began to open and the tenement bairns called down their morning greeting:

"A gude day to ye, Bobby."

By the time all these courtesies had been returned Tammy came in at the gate with his college books strapped on his back. The old Cunzic Neuk had been demolished by Glenormiston, and Tammy, living in better quarters, was studying to be a teacher at Heriot's. Bobby saw him settled, and then he had to escort Mr. Brown down from the lodge. The caretaker made his way about stiffly with a cane and, with the aid of a young helper who exasperated the old gardener by his cheerful inefficiency, kept the auld kirkyard in beautiful order.

"Eh, ye gude-for-naethin' tyke," he said to Bobby, in transparent pretense of his uselessness. "Get to wark, or I'll hae a young dog in to gie ye a lift, an' syne whaur'll ye be?"

Bobby jumped on him in open delight at this, as much as to say: "Ye may be as dour as ye like, but ilka body kens ye're gude-hearted."

Morning and evening numerous friends passed the gate, and the wee dog waited for them on the wicket. Dr. George Ross and Mr. Alexander McGregor shook Bobby's lifted paw and called him a sonsie rascal. Small merchants, students, clerks, factory workers, house servants, laborers and vendors, all honest and useful people, had come up out of these old tenements within Bobby's memory; and others had gone down, alas! into the Cowgate. But Bobby's tail wagged for these unfortunates, too, and some of them had no other friend in the world beside that uncalculating little dog.

When the morning stream of auld acquaintance had gone by, and none forgot, Bobby went up to the lodge to sit for an hour with Mistress Jeanie. There he was called "croodlin' doo"—which was altogether absurd—by the fond old woman. As neat of plumage, and as busy and talkative about small domestic matters as the robin, Bobby loved to watch the wifie stirring savory messes over the fire, watering her posies, cleaning the fluttering skylark's cage, or just sitting by the hearth or in the sunny doorway with him, knitting warm stockings for her rheumatic gude-mon.

Out in the kirkyard Bobby trotted dutifully at the caretaker's heels. When visitors were about he did not venture to take a nap in the open unless Mr. Brown was on guard, and, by long and close companionship with him, the aging man could often tell what Bobby was dreaming about. At a convulsive movement and a jerk of his head the caretaker would say to the wifie, if she chanced to be near:

"Leuk at that, noo, wull ye? The sperity bit was takin' thae fou' vermin." And again, when the muscles of his legs worked rhythmically, "He's rinnin' wi' the laddies or the braw soldiers on the braes."

Bobby often woke from a dream with a start, looked dazed, and then foolish, at the vivid imaginings of sleep. But when, in a doze, he half stretched himself up on his short, shagged fore paws, flattened out, and then awoke and lay so, very still, for a time, it was Mistress Jeanie who said:

"Preserve us a'! The bonny wee was dreamin' o' his maister's deith, an' noo he's greetin' sair."

At that she took her little stool and sat on the grave beside him. But Mr. Brown bit his teeth in his pipe, limped away, and stormed at his daft helper laddie, who didn't appear to know a violet from a burdock.

Ah! who can doubt that, so deeply were scene and word graven on his memory, Bobby often lived again the hour of his bereavement, and heard Auld Jock's last words:

"Gang—awa'—hame—laddie!"

Homeless on earth, gude Auld Jock had gone to a place prepared for him. But his faithful little dog had no home. This sacred spot was merely his tarrying place, where he waited until such a time as that mysterious door should open for him, perchance to an equal sky, and he could slip through and find his master.

On the morning of the day when the Grand Leddy came Bobby watched the holiday crowd gather on Heriot's Hospital grounds. The mothers and sisters of hundreds of boys were there, looking on at the great match game of cricket. Bobby dropped over the wall and scampered about, taking a merry part in the play. When the pupils' procession was formed, and the long line of grinning and nudging laddies marched in to service in the chapel and dinner in the hall, he was set up over the kirkyard wall, hundreds of hands were waved to him, and voices called back: "Fareweel, Bobby!" Then the time-gun boomed from the Castle, and the little dog trotted up for his dinner and nap under the settle and his daily visit with Mr. Traill.

In fair weather, when the last guest had departed and the music bells of St. Giles had ceased playing, the landlord was fond of standing in his doorway, bareheaded and in shirt-sleeves and apron, to exchange opinions on politics, literature and religion, or to tell Bobby's story to what passers-by he could beguile into talk. At his feet, there, was a fine place for a sociable little dog to spend an hour. When he was ready to go Bobby set his paws upon Mr. Traill and waited for the landlord's hand to be laid on his head and the man to say, in the dialect the little dog best understood: "Bide a wee. Ye're no' needin' to gang sae sune, laddie!"

At that he dropped, barked politely, wagged his tail, and was off. If Mr. Traill really wanted to detain Bobby he had only to withhold the magic word "laddie," that no one else had used toward the little dog since Auld Jock died. But if the word was too long in coming, Bobby would thrash his tail about impatiently, look up appealingly, and finally rise and beg and whimper.

"Weel, then, bide wi' me, an' ye'll get it ilka hour o' the day, ye sonsie, wee, talon' bit! What are ye hangin' aroond for? Eh—weel—gang awa' wi' ye—laddie!" The landlord sighed and looked down reproachfully. With a delighted yelp, and a lick of the lingering hand, Bobby was off.

It was after three o'clock on this day when he returned to the kirkyard. The caretaker was working at the upper end, and the little dog was lonely. But; long enough absent from his master, Bobby lay down on the grave, in the stillness of the mid-afternoon. The robin made a brief call and, as no other birds were about, hopped upon Bobby's back, perched on his head, and warbled a little song. It was then that the gate clicked. Dismissing her carriage and telling the coachman to return at five, Lady Burdett-Coutts entered the kirkyard.

Bobby trotted around the kirk on the chance of meeting a friend. He looked up intently at the strange lady for a moment, and she stood still and looked down at him. She was not a beautiful lady, nor very young. Indeed, she was a few years older than the Queen, and the Queen was a widowed grandmother. But she had a sweet dignity and warm serenity—an unhurried look, as if she had all the time in the world for a wee dog; and Bobby was an age-whitened muff of a plaintive terrier that captured her heart at once. Very certain that this stranger knew and cared about how he felt, Bobby turned and led her down to Auld Jock's grave. And when she was seated on the table-tomb he came up to her and let her look at his collar, and he stood under her caress, although she spoke to him in fey English, calling him a darling little dog. Then, entirely contented with her company, he lay down, his eyes fixed upon her and lolling his tongue.

The sun was on the green and flowery slope of Greyfriars, warming the weathered tombs and the rear windows of the tenements. The Grand Leddy found a great deal there to interest her beside Bobby and the robin that chirped and picked up crumbs between the little dog's paws. Presently the gate was opened again and' a housemaid from some mansion in George Square came around the kirk. Trained by Mistress Jeanie, she was a neat and pretty and pleasant-mannered housemaid, in a black gown and white apron, and with a frilled cap on her crinkly, gold-brown hair that had had more than "a lick or twa the nicht afore."

"It's juist Ailie," Bobby seemed to say, as he stood a moment with crested neck and tail. "Ilka body kens Ailie."

The servant lassie, with an hour out, had stopped to speak to Bobby. She had not meant to stay long, but the lady, who didn't look in the least grand, began to think friendly things aloud.

"The windows of the tenements are very clean."

"Ay. The bairnies couldna see Bobby gin the windows warna washed." The lassie was pulling her adored little pet's ears, and Bobby was nuzzling up to her.

"In many of the windows there is a box of flowers, or of kitchen herbs to make the broth savory."

"It wasna so i' the auld days. It was aye washin's clappin' aboon the stanes. Noo, mony o' the mithers hang the claes oot at nicht. Ilka thing is changed sin' I was a wean an' leevin' i' the auld Guildhall, the bairnies haen Bobby to lo'e, an' no' to be neglectet." She continued the conversation to include Tammy as he came around the kirk on his tapping crutches.

"Hoo mony years is it, Tammy, sin' Bobby's been leevin' i' the auld kirkyaird? At Maister Traill's snawy picnic ye war five gangin' on sax." They exchanged glances in which lay one of the happy memories of sad childhoods.

"Noo I'm nineteen going on twenty. It's near fourteen years syne, Ailie." Nearly all the burrs had been pulled from Tammy's tongue, but he used a Scotch word now and then, no' to shame Ailie's less cultivated speech.

"So long?" murmured the Grand Leddy. "Bobby is getting old, very old for a terrier."

As if to deny that, Bobby suddenly shot down the slope in answer to a cry of alarm from a song thrush. Still good for a dash, when he came back he dropped panting. The lady put her hand on his rippling coat and felt his heart pounding. Then she looked at his worn down teeth and lifted his veil. Much of the luster was gone from Bobby's brown eyes, but they were still soft and deep and appealing.

From the windows children looked down upon the quiet group and, without in the least knowing why they wanted to be there, too, the tenement bairns began to drop into the kirkyard. Almost at once it rained—a quick, bright, dashing shower that sent them all flying and laughing up to the shelter of the portico to the new kirk. Bobby scampered up, too, and with the bairns in holiday duddies crowding about her, and the wee dog lolling at her feet, the Grand Leddy talked fairy stories.

She told them all about a pretty country place near London. It was called Holly Lodge because its hedges were bright with green leaves and red berries, even in winter. A lady who had no family at all lived there, and to keep her company she had all sorts of pets. Peter and Prince were the dearest dogs, and Cocky was a parrot that could say the most amusing things. Sir Garnet was the llama goat, or sheep—she didn't know which. There was a fat and lazy old pony that had long been pensioned off on oats and clover, and—oh yes—the white donkey must not be forgotten!

"O-o-o-oh! I didna ken there wad be ony white donkeys!" cried a big-eyed laddie.

"There cannot be many, and there's a story about how the lady came to have this one. One day, driving in a poor street, she saw a coster—that is a London peddler—beating his tired donkey that refused to pull the load. The lady got out of her carriage, fed the animal some carrots from the cart, talked kindly to him right into his big, surprised ear, and stroked his nose. Presently the poor beast felt better and started off cheerfully with the heavy cart. When many costers learned that it was not only wicked but foolish to abuse their patient animals, they hunted for a white donkey to give the lady. They put a collar of flowers about his neck, and brought him up on a platform before a crowd of people. Everybody laughed, for he was a clumsy and comical beast to be decorated with roses and daisies. But the lady is proud of him, and now that pampered donkey has nothing to do but pull her Bath chair about, when she is at Holly Lodge, and kick up his heels on a clover pasture."

"Are ye kennin' anither tale, Leddy?"

"Oh, a number of them. Prince, the fox terrier, was ill once, and the doctor who came to see him said his mistress gave him too much to eat. That was very probable, because that lady likes to see children and animals have too much to eat. There are dozens and dozens of poor children that the lady knows and loves. Once they lived in a very dark and dirty and crowded tenement, quite as bad as some that were torn down in the Cowgate and the Grassmarket."

"It mak's ye fecht ane anither," said one laddie, soberly. "Gin they had a sonsie doggie like Bobby to lo'e, an' an auld kirkyaird wi' posies an' birdies to leuk into, they wadna fecht sae muckle."

"I'm very sure of that. Well, the lady built a new tenement with plenty of room and light and air, and a market so they can get better food more cheaply, and a large church, that is also a kind of school where big and little people can learn many things. She gives the children of the neighborhood a Christmas dinner and a gay tree, and she strips the hedges of Holly Lodge for them, and then she takes Peter and Prince, and Cocky the parrot, to help along the fun, and she tells her newest stories. Next Christmas she means to tell the story of Greyfriars Bobby, and how all his little Scotch friends are better-behaving and cleaner and happier because they have that wee dog to love."

"Ilka body lo'es Bobby. He wasna ever mistreatet or neglectet," said Ailie, thoughtfully.

"Oh—my—dear! That's the very best part of the story!" The Grand Leddy had a shining look.

The rain had ceased and the sun come out, and the children began to be called away. There was quite a little ceremony of lingering leave-taking with the lady and with Bobby, and while this was going on Ailie had a "sairious" confidence for her old playfellow.

"Tammy, as the leddy says, Bobby's gettin' auld. I ken whaur's a snawy hawthorn aboon the burn in Swanston Dell. The throstles nest there, an' the blackbirds whustle bonny. It isna so far but the bairnies could march oot wi' posies." She turned to the lady, who had overheard her. "We gied a promise to the Laird Provost to gie Bobby a grand funeral. Ye ken he wullna be permittet to be buried i' the kirkyaird."

"Will he not? I had not thought of that." Her tone was at once hushed and startled.

Then she was down in the grass, brooding over the little dog, and Bobby had the pathetic look of trying to understand what this emotional talk, that seemed to concern himself, was about. Tammy and Ailie were down, too.

"Are ye thinkin' Bobby wall be kennin' the deeference?" Ailie's bluebell eyes were wide at the thought of pain for this little pet.

"I do not know, my dear. But there cannot well be more love in this world than there is room for in God's heaven."

She was silent all the way to the gate, some thought in her mind already working toward a gracious deed. At the last she said: "The little dog is fond of you both. Be with him all you can, for I think his beautiful life is near its end." After a pause, during which her face was lighted by a smile, as if from a lovely thought within, she added: "Don't let Bobby die before my return from London."

In a week she was back, and in the meantime letters and telegrams had been flying, and many wheels set in motion in wee Bobby's affairs. When she returned to the churchyard, very early one morning, no less a person than the Lord Provost himself was with her. Five years had passed, but Mr.—no, Sir William—Chambers, Laird of Glenormiston, for he had been knighted by the Queen, was still Lord Provost of Edinburgh.

Almost immediately Mr. Traill appeared, by appointment, and was made all but speechless for once in his loquacious life by the honor of being asked to tell Bobby's story to the Baroness Burdett-Coutts. But not even a tenement child or a London coster could be ill at ease with the Grand Leddy for very long, and presently the three were in close conference in the portico. Bobby welcomed them, and then dozed in the sun and visited with the robin on Auld Jock's grave. Far from being tongue-tied, the landlord was inspired. What did he not remember, from the pathetic renunciation, "Bobby isna ma ain dog," down to the leal Highlander's last, near tragic reminder to men that in the nameless grave lay his unforgotten master.

He sketched the scene in Haddo's Hole, where the tenement bairns poured out as pure a gift of love and mercy and self-sacrifice as had ever been laid at the foot of a Scottish altar. He told of the search for the lately ransomed and lost terrier, by the lavish use of oil and candles; of Bobby's coming down Castle Rock in the fog, battered and bruised for a month's careful tending by an old Heriot laddie. His feet still showed the scars of that perilous descent. He himself, remorseful, had gone with the Biblereader from the Medical Mission in the Cowgate to the dormer-lighted closet in College Wynd, where Auld Jock had died. Now he described the classic fireplace of white freestone, with its boxed-in bed, where the Pentland shepherd lay like some effigy on a bier, with the wee guardian dog stretched on the flagged hearth below.

"What a subject for a monument!" The Grand Leddy looked across the top of the slope at the sleeping Skye. "I suppose there is no portrait of Bobby."

"Ay, your Leddyship; I have a drawing in the dining rooms, sketched by Mr. Daniel Maclise. He was here a year or twa ago, just before his death, doing some commission, and often had his tea in my bit place. I told him Bobby's story, and he made the sketch for me as a souvenir of his veesit."

"I am sure you prize it, Mr. Traill. Mr. Maclise was a talented artist, but he was not especially an animal painter. There really is no one since Landseer paints no more."

"I would advise you, Baroness, not to make that remark at an Edinburgh dinner-table." Glenormiston was smiling. "The pride of Auld Reekie just now is Mr. Gourlay Stelle, who was lately commanded to Balmoral Castle to paint the Queen's dogs."

"The very person! I have seen his beautiful canvas—'Burns and the Field Mouse.' Is he not a younger brother of Sir John Stelle, the sculptor of the statue and character figures in the Scott monument?" Her eyes sparkled as she added: "You have so much talent of the right, sorts here that it would be wicked not to employ it in the good cause."

What "the good cause" was came out presently, in the church, where she startled even Glenormiston and Mr. Traill by saying quietly to the minister and the church officers of Greyfriars auld kirk: "When Bobby dies I want him laid in the grave with his master."

Every member of both congregations knew Bobby and was proud of his fame, but no official notice had ever been taken of the little dog's presence in the churchyard. The elders and deacons were, in truth, surprised that such distinguished attention should be directed to him now, and they were embarrassed by it. It was not easy for any body of men in the United Kingdom to refuse anything to Lady Burdett-Coutts, because she could always count upon having the sympathy of the public. But this, they declared, could not be considered. To propose to bury a dog in the historic churchyard would scandalize the city. To this objection Glenormiston said, seriously: "The feeling about Bobby is quite exceptional. I would be willing to put the matter to the test of heading a petition."

At that the church officers threw up their hands. They preferred to sound public sentiment themselves, and would consider it. But if Bobby was permitted to be buried with his master there must be no notice taken of it. Well, the Heriot laddies might line up along the wall, and the tenement bairns look down from the windows. Would that satisfy her ladyship?

"As far as it goes." The Grand Leddy was smiling, but a little tremulous about the mouth.

That was a day when women had little to say in public, and she meant to make a speech, and to ask to be allowed to do an unheard-of thing.

"I want to put up a monument to the nameless man who inspired such love, and to the little dog that was capable of giving it. Ah gentlemen, do not refuse, now." She sketched her idea of the classic fireplace bier, the dead shepherd of the Pentlands, and the little prostrate terrier. "Immemorial man and his faithful dog. Our society for the prevention of cruelty to animals is finding it so hard to get people even to admit the sacredness of life in dumb creatures, the brutalizing effects of abuse of them on human beings, and the moral and practical worth to us of kindness. To insist that a dog feels, that he loves devotedly and with less calculation than men, that he grieves at a master's death and remembers him long years, brings a smile of amusement. Ah yes! Here in Scotland, too, where your own great Lord Erskine was a pioneer of pity two generations ago, and with Sir Walter's dogs beloved of the literary, and Doctor Brown's immortal 'Rab,' we find it uphill work.

"The story of Greyfriars Bobby is quite the most complete and remarkable ever recorded in dog annals. His lifetime of devotion has been witnessed by thousands, and honored publicly, by your own Lord Provost, with the freedom of the city, a thing that, I believe, has no precedent. All the endearing qualities of the dog reach their height in this loyal and lovable Highland terrier; and he seems to have brought out the best qualities of the people who have known him. Indeed, for fourteen years hundreds of disinherited children have been made kinder and happier by knowing Bobby's story and having that little dog to love."

She stopped in some embarrassment, seeing how she had let herself go, in this warm championship, and then she added:

"Bobby does not need a monument, but I think we need one of him, that future generations may never forget what the love of a dog may mean, to himself and to us."

The Grand Leddy must have won her plea, then and there, but for the fact that the matter of erecting a monument of a public character anywhere in the city had to come up before the Burgh council. In that body the stubborn opposition of a few members unexpectedly developed, and, in spite of popular sympathy with the proposal, the plan was rejected. Permission was given, however, for Lady Burdett-Coutts to put up a suitable memorial to Bobby at the end of George IV Bridge, and opposite the main gateway to the kirkyard.

For such a public place a tomb was unsuitable. What form the memorial was to take was not decided upon until, because of two chance happenings of one morning, the form of it bloomed like a flower in the soul of the Grand Leddy. She had come down to the kirkyard to watch the artist at work. Morning after morning he had sketched there. He had drawn Bobby lying down, his nose on his paws, asleep on the grave. He had drawn him sitting upon the table-tomb, and standing in the begging attitude in which he was so irresistible. But with every sketch he was dissatisfied.

Bobby was a trying and deceptive subject. He had the air of curiosity and gaiety of other terriers. He saw no sense at all in keeping still, with his muzzle tipped up or down, and his tail held just so. He brushed all that unreasonable man's suggestions aside as quite unworthy of consideration. Besides, he had the liveliest interest in the astonishing little dog that grew and disappeared, and came back, in some new attitude, on the canvas. He scraped acquaintance with it once or twice to the damage of fresh brush-work. He was always jumping from his pose and running around the easel to see how the latest dog was coming on.

After a number of mornings Bobby lost interest in the man and his occupation and went about his ordinary routine of life as if the artist was not there at all. One morning the wee terrier was found sitting on the table-tomb, on his haunches, looking up toward the Castle, where clouds and birds were blown around the sun-gilded battlements.

His attitude might have meant anything or nothing, for the man who looked at him from above could not see his expression. And all at once he realized that to see Bobby a human being must get down to his level. To the scandal of the children, he lay on his back on the grass and did nothing at all but look up at Bobby until the little dog moved. Then he set the wee Highlander up on an altar-topped shaft just above the level of the human eye. Indifferent at the moment as to what was done to him, Bobby continued to gaze up and out, wistfully and patiently, upon this masterless world. As plainly as a little dog could speak, Bobby said:

"I hae bided lang an' lanely. Hoo lang hae I still to bide? An' syne, wull I be gangin' to Auld Jock?"

The Grand Leddy saw that at once, and tears started to her eyes when she came in to find the artist sketching with feverish rapidity. She confessed that she had looked into Bobby's eyes, but she had never truly seen that mourning little creature before. He had only to be set up so, in bronze, and looking through the kirkyard gate, to tell his own story to the most careless passerby. The image of the simple memorial was clear in her mind, and it seemed unlikely that anything could be added to it, when she left the kirkyard.

As she was getting into her carriage a noble collie, but one with a discouraged tail and hanging tongue, came out of Forest Road. He had done a hard morning's work, of driving a flock from the Pentlands to the cattle and sheep market, and then had hunted far and unsuccessfully for water. He nosed along the gutter, here and there licking from the cobblestones what muddy moisture had not drained away from a recent rain. The same lady who had fed the carrots to the coster's donkey in London turned hastily into Ye Olde Greyfriars Dining-Rooms, and asked Mr. Traill for a basin of water. The landlord thought he must have misunderstood her. "Is it a glass of water your Leddyship's wanting?"

"No, a basin, please; a large one, and very quickly."

She took it from him, hurried out, and set it under the thirsty animal's nose. The collie lapped it eagerly until the water was gone, then looked up and, by waggings and lickings, asked for more. Mr. Traill brought out a second basin, and he remarked upon a sheep-dog's capacity for water.

"It's no' a basin will satisfy him, used as he is to having a tam on the moor to drink from. This neeborhood is noted for the dogs that are aye passing. On Wednesdays the farm dogs come up from the Grassmarket, and every day there are weel-cared-for dogs from the residence streets, dogs of all conditions across the bridge from High Street, and meeserable waifs from the Cowgate. Stray pussies are about, too. I'm a gude-hearted man, and an unco' observant one, your Leddyship, but I was no' thinking that these animals must often suffer from thirst."

"Few people do think of it. Most men can love some one dog or cat or horse and be attentive to its wants, but they take little thought for the world of dumb animals that are so dependent upon us. It is no special credit to you, Mr. Traill, that you became fond of an attractive little dog like Bobby and have cared for him so tenderly."

The landlord gasped. He had taken not a little pride in his stanch championship and watchful care of Bobby, and his pride had beer increased by the admiration that had been lavished on him for years by the general public. Now, as he afterward confessed to Mr. Brown:

"Her leddyship made me feel I'd done naething by the ordinar', but maistly to please my ainsel'. Eh, man, she made me sing sma'."

When the collie had finished drinking, he looked up gratefully, rubbed against the good Samaritans, waved his plumed tail like a banner, and trotted away. After a thoughtful moment Lady Burdett-Coutts said:

"The suitable memorial here, Mr. Traill, is a fountain, with a low basin level with the curb, and a higher one, and Bobby sitting on an altar-topped central column above, looking through the kirkyard gate. It shall be his mission to bring men and small animals together in sympathy by offering to both the cup of cold water."

She was there once again that year. On her way north she stopped in Edinburgh over night to see how the work on the fountain had progressed. It was in Scotland's best season, most of the days dry and bright and sharp. But on that day it was misting, and yellow leaves were dropping on the wet tombs and beaded grass, when the Grand Leddy appeared at the kirkyard late in the afternoon with a wreath of laurel to lay on Auld Jock's grave.

Bobby slipped out, dry as his own delectable bone, from under the tomb of Mistress Jean Grant, and nearly wagged his tail off with pleasure. Mistress Jeanie was set in a proud flutter when the Grand Leddy rang at the lodge kitchen and asked if she and Bobby could have their tea there with the old couple by the cozy grate fire.

They all drank tea from the best blue cups, and ate buttered scones and strawberry jam on the scoured deal table. Bobby had his porridge and broth on the hearth. The coals snapped in the grate and the firelight danced merrily on the skylark's cage and the copper kettle. Mr. Brown got out his fife and played "Bonnie Dundee." Wee, silver-white Bobby tried to dance, but he tumbled over so lamentably once or twice that he hung his head apologetically, admitting that he ought to have the sense to know that his dancing days were done. He lay down and lolled and blinked on the hearth until the Grand Leddy rose to go.

"I am on my way to Braemar to visit for a few days at Balmoral Castle. I wish I could take Bobby with me to show him to the dear Queen."

"Preserve me!" cried Mistress Jeanie, and Mr. Brown's pet pipe was in fragments on the hearth.

Bobby leaped upon her and whimpered, saying "Dinna gang, Leddy!" as plainly as a little dog could say anything. He showed the pathos at parting with one he was fond of, now, that an old and affectionate person shows. He clung to her gown, rubbed his rough head under her hand, and trotted disconsolately beside her to her waiting carriage. At the very last she said, sadly:

"The Queen will have to come to Edinburgh to see Bobby."

"The bonny wee wad be a prood doggie, yer Leddyship," Mistress Jeanie managed to stammer, but Mr. Brown was beyond speech.

The Grand Leddy said nothing. She looked at the foundation work of Bobby's memorial fountain, swathed in canvas against the winter, and waiting—waiting for the spring, when the waters of the earth should be unsealed again; waiting until finis could be written to a story on a bronze table-tomb; waiting for the effigy of a shaggy Skye terrier to be cast and set up; waiting—

When the Queen came to see Bobby it was unlikely that he would know anything about it.

He would know nothing of the crowds to gather there on a public occasion, massing on the bridge, in Greyfriars Place, in broad Chambers Street, and down Candlemakers Row—the magistrates and Burgh council, professors and students from the University, soldiers from the Castle, the neighboring nobility in carriages, farmers and shepherds from the Pentlands, the Heriot laddies marching from the school, and the tenement children in holiday duddies—all to honor the memory of a devoted little dog. He would know nothing of the military music and flowers, the prayer of the minister of Greyfriars auld kirk, the speech of the Lord Provost; nothing of the happy tears of the Grand Leddy when a veil should fall away from a little bronze dog that gazed wistfully through the kirkyard gate, and water gush forth for the refreshment of men and animals.

"Good-by, good-by, good-by, Bobby; most loving and lovable, darlingest wee dog in the world!" she cried, and a shower of bright drops and sweet little sounds fell on Bobby's tousled head. Then the carriage of the Grand Leddy rolled away in the rainy dusk.

The hour-bell of St. Giles was rung, and the sunset bugle blown in the Castle. It took Mr. Brown a long time to lift the wicket, close the tall leaves and lock the gate. The wind was rising, and the air hardening. One after one the gas lamps flared in the gusts that blew on the bridge. The huge bulk of shadow lay, velvet black, in the drenched quarry pit of the Grassmarket. The caretaker's voice was husky with a sudden "cauld in 'is heid."

"Ye're an auld dog, Bobby, an' ye canna deny it. Ye'll juist hae to sleep i' the hoose the misty nicht."

Loath to part with them, Bobby went up to the lodge with the old couple and saw them within the cheerful kitchen. But when the door was held open for him, he wagged his tail in farewell and trotted away around the kirk. All the concession he was willing to make to old age and bad weather was to sleep under the fallen table-tomb.

Greyfriars on a dripping autumn evening! A pensive hour and season, everything memorable brooded there. Crouched back in shadowy ranks, the old tombs were draped in mystery. The mist was swirled by the wind and smoke smeared out, over their dim shapes. Where families sat close about scant suppers, the lights of candles and cruisey lamps were blurred. The faintest halo hung above the Castle head. Infrequent footsteps hurried by the gate. There was the rattle of a belated cart, the ring of a distant church bell. But even on such nights the casements were opened and little faces looked into the melancholy kirkyard. Candles glimmered for a moment on the murk, and sweetly and clearly the tenement bairns called down:

"A gude nicht to ye, Bobby."

They could not see the little dog, but they knew he was there. They knew now that he would still be there when they could see him no more—his body a part of the soil, his memory a part of all that was held dear and imperishable in that old garden of souls. They could go up to the lodge and look at his famous collar, and they would have his image in bronze on the fountain. And sometime, when the mysterious door opened for them, they might see Bobby again, a sonsie doggie running on the green pastures and beside the still waters, at the heels of his shepherd master, for:

If there is not more love in this world than there is room for in God's heaven, Bobby would just have "gaen awa' hame."

THE END