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.