Part 12

“Hae ye got ma ain Bobby, faither?”

“Ay, lassie, I fetched 'im hame,” the farmer roared back, in his big voice.

Then the cart was stopped for the wee maid to scramble up over a wheel, and there were sweet little sounds of kissing and muffled little cuddlings under the warm plaid. When these soft endearments had been attended to there was time for another yearning.

“May I haud wee Bobby, faither?”

“Nae, lassie, a bonny bit bairnie couldna haud 'im in 'er sma' airms. Bobby's a' for gangin' awa' to leev in a grand kirkyaird wi' Auld Jock.”

A little gasp, and a wee sob, and an awed question: “Is gude Auld Jock deid, daddy?”

Bobby heard it and answered with a mournful howl. The lassie snuggled closer to the warm, beating heart, hid her eyes in the rough plaid, and cried for Auld Jock and for the grieving little dog.

“Niest to faither an' mither an' big brither Wattie I lo'e Auld Jock an' Bobby.” The bairnie's voice was smothered in the plaidie. Because it was dark and none were by to see, the reticent Scot could overflow in tender speech. His arm tightened around this one little ewe lamb of the human fold on cold slope farm. He comforted the child by telling her how they would mak' it up to Bobby, and how very soon a wee dog forgets the keenest sorrow and is happy again.

The sheep-dogs charged the cart with as deafening a clamor of welcome as if a home-coming had never happened before, and raced the horse across the level. The kitchen door flared open, a sudden beacon to shepherds scattered afar on these upland billows of heath. In a moment the basket was in the house, the door snecked, and Bobby released on the hearth.

It was a beautiful, dark old kitchen, with a homely fire of peat that glowed up to smoke-stained rafters. Soon it was full of shepherds, come in to a supper of brose, cheese, milk and bannocks. Sheep-dogs sprawled and dozed on the hearth, so that the gude wife complained of their being underfoot. But she left them undisturbed and stepped over them, for, tired as they were, they would have to go out again to drive the sheep into the fold.

Humiliated by being brought home a prisoner, and grieving for the forsaken grave in Greyfriars, Bobby crept away to a corner bench, on which Auld Jock had always sat in humble self-effacement. He lay down under it, and the little four year-old lassie sat on the floor close beside him, understanding, and sorry with him. Her rough brother Wattie teased her about wanting her supper there on one plate with Bobby.

“I wadna gang daft aboot a bit dog, Elsie.”

“Leave the bairn by 'er lane,” commanded the farmer. The mither patted the child's bright head, and wiped the tears from the bluebell eyes. And there was a little sobbing confidence poured into a sympathetic ear.

Bobby refused to eat at first, but by and by he thought better of it. A little dog that has his life to live and his work to do must have fuel to drive the throbbing engine of his tiny heart. So Bobby very sensibly ate a good supper in the lassie's company and, grateful for that and for her sympathy, submitted to her shy petting. But after the shepherds and dogs were gone and the farmer had come in again from an overseeing look about the place the little dog got up, trotted to the door, and lay down by it. The lassie followed him. With two small, plump hands she pushed Bobby's silver veil back, held his muzzle and looked into his sad, brown eyes.

“Oh, mither, mither, Bobby's greetin',” she cried.

“Nae, bonny wee, a sma' dog canna greet.”

“Ay, he's greetin' sair!” A sudden, sweet little sound was dropped on Bobby's head.

“Ye shouldna kiss the bit dog, bairnie. He isna like a human body.”

“Ay, a wee kiss is gude for 'im. Faither, he greets so I canna thole it.” The child fled to comforting arms in the inglenook and cried herself to sleep. The gude wife knitted, and the gude mon smoked by the pleasant fire. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the wag at the wa' clock, for burning peat makes no noise at all, only a pungent whiff in the nostrils, the memory of which gives a Scotch laddie abroad a fit of hamesickness. Bobby lay very still and watchful by the door. The farmer served his astonishing news in dramatic bits.

“Auld Jock's deid.” Bobby stirred at that, and flattened out on the floor.

“Ay, the lassie told that, an' I wad hae kenned it by the dog. He is greetin' by the ordinar'.”

“An' he's buried i' the kirkyaird o' auld Greyfriars.” Ah, that fetched her! The gude wife dropped her knitting and stared at him.

“There's a gairdener, like at the country-hooses o' the gentry, leevin' in a bit lodge by the gate. He has naethin' to do, ava, but lock the gate at nicht, put the dogs oot, an' mak' the posies bloom i' the simmer. Ay, it's a bonny place.”

“It's ower grand for Auld Jock.”

“Ye may weel say that. His bit grave isna so far frae the martyrs' monument.” When the grandeur of that had sunk in he went on to other incredibilities.

Presently he began to chuckle. “There's a bit notice on the gate that nae dogs are admittet, but Bobby's sleepit on Auld Jock's grave ane--twa--three--fower nichts, an' the gairdener doesna ken it, ava. He's a canny beastie.”

“Ay, he is. Folk wull be comin' frae miles aroond juist to leuk at thesperity bit. Ilka body aboot kens Auld Jock. It'll be maist michty news to tell at the kirk on the Sabbath, that he's buried i' Greyfriars.”

Through all this talk Bobby had lain quietly by the door, in the expectation that it would be unlatched. Impatient of delay, he began to whimper and to scratch on the panel. The lassie opened her blue eyes at that, scrambled down, and ran to him. Instantly Bobby was up, tugging at her short little gown and begging to be let out. When she clasped her chubby arms around his neck and tried to comfort him he struggled free and set up a dreadful howling.