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.