Suddenly he turned ’round and ’round in bewilderment, then shot through a sculptured door way, into a well-like court, and up a flight of stone stairs.  The slamming of a shutter overhead shocked him to a standstill on the landing and sent him dropping slowly down again.  What memories surged back to his little brain, what grief gripped his heart, as he stood trembling on a certain spot in the pavement where once a long deal box had rested!

“What ails the bittie dog?” There was something here that sobered the thoughtless boys.  “Come awa’, Bobby!”

At that he came obediently enough.  But he trotted down the very middle of the wynd, head and tail low, and turned unheeding into the Saturday-evening roar of the Cowgate.  He refused to follow them up the rise between St. Magdalen’s Chapel and the eastern parapet of the bridge, but kept to his way under the middle arch into the Grassmarket.  By way of Candlemakers Row he gained the kirkyard gate, and when the wicket was opened he disappeared around the church.  When Bobby failed to answer calls, Mr. Brown grumbled, but went after him.  The little dog submitted to his vigorous scrubbing and grooming, but he refused his supper.  Without a look or a wag of the tail he was gone again.

“Noo, what hae ye done to’im?  He’s no’ like ‘is ainsel’ ava.”

They had done nothing, indeed.  They could only relate Bobby’s strange behavior in College Wynd and the rest of the way home.  Mistress Jeanie nodded her head, with the wisdom of women that is of the heart.

“Eh, Jamie, that wad be whaur ’is maister deed sax months syne.”  And having said it she slipped down the slope with her knitting and sat on the mound beside the mourning little dog.

When the awe-struck lads asked for the story Mr. Brown shook his head.  “Ye spier Maister Traill.  He kens a’ aboot it; an’ syne he can talk like a beuk.”

Before they left the kirkyard the laddies walked down to Auld Jock’s grave and patted Bobby on the head, and they went away thoughtfully to their scattered homes.

As on that first morning when his grief was new, Bobby woke to a Calvinistic Sabbath.  There were no rattling carts or hawkers crying their wares.  Steeped in sunshine, the Castle loomed golden into the blue.  Tenement dwellers slept late, and then moved about quietly.  Children with unwontedly clean faces came out to galleries and stairs to study their catechisms.  Only the birds were unaware of the seventh day, and went about their melodious business; and flower buds opened to the sun.

In mid-morning there suddenly broke on the sweet stillness that clamor of discordant bells that made the wayfarer in Edinburgh stop his ears.  All the way from Leith Harbor to the Burghmuir eight score of warring bells contended to be heard.  Greyfriars alone was silent in that babblement, for it had lost tower and bell in an explosion of gunpowder.  And when the din ceased at last there was a sound of military music.  The Castle gates swung wide, and a kilted regiment marched down High Street playing “God Save the Queen.”  When Bobby was in good spirits the marching music got into his legs and set him to dancing scandalously.  The caretaker and his wifie always came around the kirk on pleasant mornings to see the bonny sight of the gay soldiers going to church.