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.