Tammy followed at a surprising pace on his rude crutches, and Mr. Traill brought up the rear.  If the children could not smuggle the frantic little dog inside, the landlord meant to put him over the wicket and, if necessary, to have it out with the caretaker, and then to go before the kirk minister and officers with his plea.  He was still concealed by the buildings, from the alcoved gate, when he heard Mr. Brown’s gruff voice taking the frightened bairns to task.

“Gie me the dog; an’ dinna ye tak’ him oot ony mair wi’oot spierin’ me.”

The children fled.  Peeping around the angle of the Book Hunter’s Stall, Mr. Traill saw the caretaker lift Bobby over the wicket to his arms, and start with him toward the lodge.  He was perishing with curiosity about this astonishing change of front on the part of Mr. Brown, but it was a delicate situation in which it seemed best not to meddle.  He went slowly back to the restaurant, begrudging Bobby to the luckier caretaker.

His envy was premature.  Mr. Brown set Bobby inside the lodge kitchen and announced briefly to his wife:  “The bit dog wull sleep i’ the hoose the nicht.”  And he went about some business at the upper end of the kirkyard.  When he came in an hour later Bobby was gone.

“I couldna keep ’im in, Jamie.  He didna blatter, but he greeted so sair to be let oot, an syne he scratched a’ the paint aff the door.”

Mr. Brown glowered at her in exasperation.  “Woman, they’ll hae me up afore kirk sessions for brakin’ the rules, an’ syne they’ll turn us a’ oot i’ the cauld warld togither.”

He slammed the door and stormed angrily around the kirk.  It was still light enough to see the little creature on the snowy mound and, indeed, Bobby got up and wagged his tail in friendly greeting.  At that all the bluster went out of the man, and he began to argue the matter with the dog.

“Come awa’, Bobby.  Ye canna be leevin’ i’ the kirkyaird.”

Bobby was of a different opinion.  He turned around and around, thoughtfully, several times, then sat up on the grave.  Entirely willing to spend a social hour with his new friend, he fixed his eyes hospitably upon him.  Mr. Brown dropped to the slab, lighted his pipe, and smoked for a time, to compose his agitated mind.  By and by he got up briskly and stooped to lift the little dog.  At that Bobby dug his claws in the clods and resisted with all his muscular body and determined mind.  He clung to the grave so desperately, and looked up so piteously, that the caretaker surrendered.  And there was snod Mistress Jeanie, forgetting her spotless gown and kneeling in the snow.

“Puir Bobby, puir wee Bobby!” she cried, and her tears fell on the little tousled head.  The caretaker strode abruptly away and waited for the wifie in the shadow of the auld kirk.  Bobby lifted his muzzle and licked the caressing hand.  Then he curled himself up comfortably on the mound and went to sleep.