“Dinna fash yersel’, man.  The wee beastie is maist michty fond o’ ye, an’ ilka dog aye chooses ’is ain maister.”

Auld Jock shook his head and gave a brief account of Bobby’s perversity.  On the very next market-day the little dog must be restored to the tenant of Cauldbrae farm and, if necessary, tied in the cart.  It was unlikely, young as he was, that he would try to find his way back, all the way from near the top of the Pentlands.  In a day or two he would forget Auld Jock.

“I canna say it wullna be sair partin’—­” And then, seeing the sympathy in the landlord’s eye and fearing a disgraceful breakdown, Auld Jock checked his self betrayal.  During the talk Bobby stood listening.  At the abrupt ending, he put his shagged paws up on Auld Jock’s knee, wistfully inquiring about this emotional matter.  Then he dropped soberly, and slunk away under his master’s chair.

“Ay, he kens we’re talkin’ aboot ’im.”

“He’s a knowing bit dog.  Have you attended to his sairous education, man?”

“Nae, he’s ower young.”

“Young is aye the time to teach a dog or a bairn that life is no’ all play.  Man, you should put a sma’ terrier at the vermin an’ mak’ him usefu’.”

“It’s eneugh, gin he’s gude company for the wee lassie wha’s fair fond o’ ’im,” Auld Jock answered, briefly.  This was a strange sentiment from the work-broken old man who, for himself, would have held ornamental idleness sinful.  He finished his supper in brooding silence.  At last he broke out in a peevish irritation that only made his grief at parting with Bobby more apparent to an understanding man like Mr. Traill.

“I dinna ken what to do wi’ ‘im i’ an Edinburgh lodgin’ the nicht.  The auld wifie I lodge wi’ is dour by the ordinar’, an’ wadna bide ‘is blatterin’.  I couldna get ’im past ’er auld een, an’ thae terriers are aye barkin’ aboot naethin’ ava.”

Mr. Traill’s eyes sparkled at recollection of an apt literary story to which Dr. John Brown had given currency.  Like many Edinburgh shopkeepers, Mr. Traill was a man of superior education and an omnivorous reader.  And he had many customers from the near-by University to give him a fund of stories of Scotch writers and other worthies.

“You have a double plaid, man?”

“Ay.  Ilka shepherd’s got a twa-fold plaidie.”  It seemed a foolish question to Auld Jock, but Mr. Traill went on blithely.

“There’s a pocket in the plaid—­ane end left open at the side to mak’ a pouch?  Nae doubt you’ve carried mony a thing in that pouch?”

“Nae, no’ so mony.  Juist the new-born lambs.”

“Weel, Sir Walter had a shepherd’s plaid, and there was a bit lassie he was vera fond of Syne, when he had been at the writing a’ the day, and was aff his heid like, with too mony thoughts, he’d go across the town and fetch the bairnie to keep him company.  She was a weel-born lassie, sax or seven years auld, and sma’ of her age, but no’ half as sma’ as Bobby, I’m thinking.”  He stopped to let this significant comparison sink into Auld Jock’s mind.  “The lassie had nae liking for the unmannerly wind and snaw of Edinburgh.  So Sir Walter just happed her in the pouch of his plaid, and tumbled her out, snug as a lamb and nane the wiser, in the big room wha’s walls were lined with books.”