“Ay, a wee kiss is gude for ’im.  Faither, he greets so I canna thole it.”  The child fled to comforting arms in the inglenook and cried herself to sleep.  The gude wife knitted, and the gude mon smoked by the pleasant fire.  The only sound in the room was the ticking of the wag at the wa’ clock, for burning peat makes no noise at all, only a pungent whiff in the nostrils, the memory of which gives a Scotch laddie abroad a fit of hamesickness.  Bobby lay very still and watchful by the door.  The farmer served his astonishing news in dramatic bits.

“Auld Jock’s deid.”  Bobby stirred at that, and flattened out on the floor.

“Ay, the lassie told that, an’ I wad hae kenned it by the dog.  He is greetin’ by the ordinar’.”

“An’ he’s buried i’ the kirkyaird o’ auld Greyfriars.”  Ah, that fetched her!  The gude wife dropped her knitting and stared at him.

“There’s a gairdener, like at the country-hooses o’ the gentry, leevin’ in a bit lodge by the gate.  He has naethin’ to do, ava, but lock the gate at nicht, put the dogs oot, an’ mak’ the posies bloom i’ the simmer.  Ay, it’s a bonny place.”

“It’s ower grand for Auld Jock.”

“Ye may weel say that.  His bit grave isna so far frae the martyrs’ monument.”  When the grandeur of that had sunk in he went on to other incredibilities.

Presently he began to chuckle.  “There’s a bit notice on the gate that nae dogs are admittet, but Bobby’s sleepit on Auld Jock’s grave ane—­twa—­three—­fower nichts, an’ the gairdener doesna ken it, ava.  He’s a canny beastie.”

“Ay, he is.  Folk wull be comin’ frae miles aroond juist to leuk at thesperity bit.  Ilka body aboot kens Auld Jock.  It’ll be maist michty news to tell at the kirk on the Sabbath, that he’s buried i’ Greyfriars.”

Through all this talk Bobby had lain quietly by the door, in the expectation that it would be unlatched.  Impatient of delay, he began to whimper and to scratch on the panel.  The lassie opened her blue eyes at that, scrambled down, and ran to him.  Instantly Bobby was up, tugging at her short little gown and begging to be let out.  When she clasped her chubby arms around his neck and tried to comfort him he struggled free and set up a dreadful howling.

“Hoots, Bobby, stap yer havers!” shouted the farmer.

“Eh, lassie, he’ll deave us a’.  We’ll juist hae to put ‘im i’ the byre wi’ the coos for the nicht,” cried the distracted mither.

“I want Bobby i’ the bed wi’ me.  I’ll cuddle ‘im an’ lo’e ’im till he staps greetin’.”

“Nae, bonny wee, he wullna stap.”  The farmer picked the child up on one arm, gripped the dog under the other, and the gude wife went before with a lantern, across the dark farmyard to the cow-barn.  When the stout door was unlatched there was a smell of warm animals, of milk, and cured hay, and the sound of full, contented breathings that should have brought a sense of companionship to a grieving little creature.