“Ay, ye could.  It’s the bonniest of a’ when ye’re no’ expectin’ it.  I aye keep a picnic hidden i’ the ingleneuk aboon.”  He suddenly swung Tammy up on his shoulder, and calling, gaily, “Come awa’,” went out the door, through another beside it, and up a flight of stairs to the dining-room above.  A fire burned there in the grate, the tables were covered with linen, and there were blooming flowers in pots in the front windows.  Patrons from the University, and the well-to-do streets and squares to the south and east, made of this upper room a sort of club in the evenings.  At four o’clock in the afternoon there were no guests.

“Noo,” said Mr. Traill, when his overcome little guests were seated at a table in the inglenook.  “A picnic is whaur ye hae onything ye fancy to eat; gude things ye wullna be haein’ ilka day, ye mind.”  He rang a call-bell, and a grinning waiter laddie popped up so quickly the lassie caught her breath.

“Eneugh broo for aince,” said Tammy.

“Porridge that isna burned,” suggested Ailie.  Such pitiful poverty of the imagination!

“Nae, it’s bread, an’ butter, an’ strawberry jam, an’ tea wi’ cream an’ sugar, an’ cauld chuckie at a snawy picnic,” announced Mr. Traill.  And there it was, served very quickly and silently, after some manner of magic.  Bobby had to stand on the fourth chair to eat his dinner, and when he had despatched it he sat up and viewed the little party with the liveliest interest and happiness.

“Tammy,” Ailie said, when her shyness had worn off, “it’s like the grand tales ye mak’ up i’ yer heid.”

“Preserve me!  Does the wee mannie mak’ up stories?”

“It’s juist fulish things, aboot haein’ mair to eat, an’ a sonsie doggie to play wi’, an’ twa gude legs to tak’ me aboot.  I think ’em oot at nicht when I canna sleep.”

“Eh, laddie, do ye noo?” Mr. Traill suddenly had a terrible “cauld in ’is heid,” that made his eyes water.  “Hoo auld are ye?”

“Five, gangin’ on sax.”

“Losh!  I thoucht ye war fifty, gangin’ on saxty.”  Laughter saved the day from overmoist emotions.  And presently Mr. Traill was able to say in a business-like tone: 

“We’ll hae to tak’ ye to the infirmary.  An’ if they canna mak’ yer legs ower ye’ll get a pair o’ braw crutches that are the niest thing to gude legs.  An’ syne we’ll see if there’s no’ a place in Heriot’s for a sma’ laddie that mak’s up bonny tales o’ his ain in the murky auld Cunzie Neuk.”

Now the gay little feast was eaten, and early dark was coming on.  If Mr. Traill had entertained the hope that Bobby had recovered from his grief and might remain with him, he was disappointed.  The little dog began to be restless.  He ran to the door and back; he begged, and he scratched on the panel.  And then he yelped!  As soon as the door was opened he shot out of it, tumbled down the stairway and waited at the foot impatiently for the lower door to be unlatched.  Ailie’s thin, swift legs were left behind when Bobby dashed to the kirkyard.