“The sonsie, wee—­why, he’s all but starved!”

Pale with pity, Mr. Traill snatched a plate of broth from the hands of a gaping waiter laddie, set it under Bobby’s nose, and watched him begin to lap the warm liquid eagerly.  In the busy place the incident passed unnoticed.  With his usual, brisk decision Mr. Traill turned the backs of a couple of chairs over against the nearest table, to signify that the corner was reserved, and he went about his duties with unwonted silence.  As the crowd thinned he returned to the inglenook to find Bobby asleep, not curled up in a tousled ball, as such a little dog should be, but stretched on his side and breathing irregularly.

If Bobby was in such straits, how must it be with Auld Jock?  This was the fifth day since the sick old man had fled into the storm.  With new disquiet Mr. Traill remembered a matter that had annoyed him in the morning, and that he had been inclined to charge to mischievous Heriot boys.  Low down on the outside of his freshly varnished entrance door were many scratches that Bobby could have made.  He may have come for food on the Sabbath day when the place was closed.

After an hour Bobby woke long enough to eat a generous plate of that delectable and highly nourishing Scotch dish known as haggis.  He fell asleep again in an easier attitude that relieved the tension on the landlord’s feelings.  Confident that the devoted little dog would lead him straight to his master, Mr. Traill closed the door securely, that he might not escape unnoticed, and arranged his own worldly affairs so he could leave them to hirelings on the instant.  In the idle time between dinner and supper he sat down by the fire, lighted his pipe, repented his unruly tongue, and waited.  As the short day darkened to its close the sunset bugle was blown in the Castle.  At the first note, Bobby crept from under the settle, a little unsteady on his legs as yet, wagged his tail for thanks, and trotted to the door.

Mr. Traill had no trouble at all in keeping the little dog in sight to the kirkyard gate, for in the dusk his coat shone silvery white.  Indeed, by a backward look now and then, Bobby seemed to invite the man to follow, and waited at the gate, with some impatience, for him to come up.  Help was needed there.  By rising and tugging at Mr. Traill’s clothing and then jumping on the wicket Bobby plainly begged to have it opened.  He made no noise, neither barking nor whimpering, and that was very strange for a dog of the terrier breed; but each instant of delay he became more insistent, and even frantic, to have the gate unlatched.  Mr. Traill refused to believe what Bobby’s behavior indicated, and reproved him in the broad Scotch to which the country dog was used.

“Nae, Bobby; be a gude dog.  Gang doon to the Coogate noo, an’ find Auld Jock.”

Uttering no cry at all, Bobby gave the man such a woebegone look and dropped to the pavement, with his long muzzle as far under the wicket as he could thrust it, that the truth shot home to Mr. Traill’s understanding.  He opened the gate.  Bobby slipped through and stood just inside a moment, and looking back as if he expected his human friend to follow.  Then, very suddenly, as the door of the lodge opened and the caretaker came out, Bobby disappeared in the shadow of the church.