“Niest to faither an’ mither an’ big brither Wattie I lo’e Auld Jock an’ Bobby.”  The bairnie’s voice was smothered in the plaidie.  Because it was dark and none were by to see, the reticent Scot could overflow in tender speech.  His arm tightened around this one little ewe lamb of the human fold on cold slope farm.  He comforted the child by telling her how they would mak’ it up to Bobby, and how very soon a wee dog forgets the keenest sorrow and is happy again.

The sheep-dogs charged the cart with as deafening a clamor of welcome as if a home-coming had never happened before, and raced the horse across the level.  The kitchen door flared open, a sudden beacon to shepherds scattered afar on these upland billows of heath.  In a moment the basket was in the house, the door snecked, and Bobby released on the hearth.

It was a beautiful, dark old kitchen, with a homely fire of peat that glowed up to smoke-stained rafters.  Soon it was full of shepherds, come in to a supper of brose, cheese, milk and bannocks.  Sheep-dogs sprawled and dozed on the hearth, so that the gude wife complained of their being underfoot.  But she left them undisturbed and stepped over them, for, tired as they were, they would have to go out again to drive the sheep into the fold.

Humiliated by being brought home a prisoner, and grieving for the forsaken grave in Greyfriars, Bobby crept away to a corner bench, on which Auld Jock had always sat in humble self-effacement.  He lay down under it, and the little four year-old lassie sat on the floor close beside him, understanding, and sorry with him.  Her rough brother Wattie teased her about wanting her supper there on one plate with Bobby.

“I wadna gang daft aboot a bit dog, Elsie.”

“Leave the bairn by ’er lane,” commanded the farmer.  The mither patted the child’s bright head, and wiped the tears from the bluebell eyes.  And there was a little sobbing confidence poured into a sympathetic ear.

Bobby refused to eat at first, but by and by he thought better of it.  A little dog that has his life to live and his work to do must have fuel to drive the throbbing engine of his tiny heart.  So Bobby very sensibly ate a good supper in the lassie’s company and, grateful for that and for her sympathy, submitted to her shy petting.  But after the shepherds and dogs were gone and the farmer had come in again from an overseeing look about the place the little dog got up, trotted to the door, and lay down by it.  The lassie followed him.  With two small, plump hands she pushed Bobby’s silver veil back, held his muzzle and looked into his sad, brown eyes.

“Oh, mither, mither, Bobby’s greetin’,” she cried.

“Nae, bonny wee, a sma’ dog canna greet.”

“Ay, he’s greetin’ sair!” A sudden, sweet little sound was dropped on Bobby’s head.

“Ye shouldna kiss the bit dog, bairnie.  He isna like a human body.”