The second tier of windows of the tenements was level with the kirkyard wall, and several times Mr. Traill called up to a lighted casement where a family sat at a scant supper

“Have you seen a bit dog, man?”

There was much cordial interest in his quest, windows opening and faces staring into the dusk; but not until near the top of the Row was a clue gained.  Then, at the query, an unkempt, illclad lassie slipped from her stool and leaned out over the pediment of a tomb.  She had seen a “wee, wee doggie jinkin’ amang the stanes.”  It was on the Sabbath evening, when the well-dressed folk had gone home from the afternoon services.  She was eating her porridge at the window, “by her lane,” when he “keeked up at her so knowing, and begged so bonny,” that she balanced her bit bowl on a lath, and pushed it over on the kirkyard wall.  As she finished the story the big, blue eyes of the little maid, who doubtless had herself known what it was to be hungry, filled with tears.

“The wee tyke couldna loup up to it, an’ a deil o’ a pussy got it a’.  He was so bonny, like a leddy’s pet, an’ syne he fell ower on the snaw an’ creepit awa’.  He didna cry oot, but he was a’ but deid wi’ hunger.”  At the memory of it soft-hearted Ailie Lindsey sobbed on her mother’s shoulder.

The tale was retold from one excited window to another, all the way around and all the way up to the gables, so quickly could some incident of human interest make a social gathering in the populous tenements.  Most of all, the children seized upon the touching story.  Eager and pinched little faces peered wistfully into the melancholy kirkyard.

“Is he yer ain dog?” crippled Tammy Barr piped out, in his thin treble.  “Gin I had a bonny wee dog I’d gie ‘im ma ain brose, an’ cuddle ‘im, an’ he couldna gang awa’.”

“Nae, laddie, he’s no’ my dog.  His master lies buried here, and the leal Highlander mourns for him.”  With keener appreciation of its pathos, Mr. Traill recalled that this was what Auld Jock had said:  “Bobby isna ma ain dog.”  And he was conscious of wishing that Bobby was his own, with his unpurchasable love and a loyalty to face starvation.  As he mounted the turfed terraces he thought to call back: 

“If you see him again, lassie, call him ‘Bobby,’ and fetch him up to Greyfriars Dining-Rooms.  I have a bright siller shulling, with the Queen’s bonny face on it, to give the bairn that finds Bobby.”

There was excited comment on this.  He must, indeed, be an attractive dog to be worth a shilling.  The children generously shared plans for capturing Bobby.  But presently the windows were closed, and supper was resumed.  The caretaker was irritable.

“Noo, ye’ll hae them a’ oot swarmin’ ower the kirkyaird.  There’s nae coontin’ the bairns o’ the neeborhood, an’ nane o’ them are so weel broucht up as they micht be.”

Mr. Traill commented upon this philosophically:  “A bairn is like a dog in mony ways.  Tak’ a stick to one or the other and he’ll misbehave.  The children here are poor and neglected, but they’re no’ vicious like the awfu’ imps of the Cowgate, wha’d steal from their blind grandmithers.  Get on the gude side of the bairns, man, and you’ll live easier and die happier.”