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.”