To wee Bobby these good, comfortable, everyday friends of his must have seemed strange in their black garments and their serious Sunday faces.  And, ah! the Sabbath must, indeed, have been a dull day to the little dog.  He had learned that when the earliest comer clicked the wicket he must go under the table-tomb and console himself with the extra bone that Mr. Traill never failed to remember.  With an hour’s respite for dinner at the lodge, between the morning and afternoon services, he lay there all day.  The restaurant was closed, and there was no running about for good dogs.  In the early dark of winter he could come out and trot quietly about the silent, deserted place.

As soon as the crocuses pushed their green noses through the earth in the spring the congregation began to linger among the graves, for to see an old burying ground renew its life is a peculiar promise of the resurrection.  By midsummer visitors were coming from afar, some even from over-sea, to read the quaint inscriptions on the old tombs, or to lay tributes of flowers on the graves of poets and religious heroes.  It was not until the late end of such a day that Bobby could come out of hiding to stretch his cramped legs.  Then it was that tenement children dropped from low windows, over the tombs, and ate their suppers of oat cake there in the fading light.

When Mr. Traill left the kirkyard in the bright evening of the last Sunday in May he stopped without to wait for Dr. Lee, the minister of Greyfriars auld kirk, who had been behind him to the gate.  Now he was nowhere to be seen.  With Bobby ever in the background of his mind, at such times of possible discovery, Mr. Traill reentered the kirkyard.  The minister was sitting on the fallen slab, tall silk hat off, with Mr. Brown standing beside him, uncovered and miserable of aspect, and Bobby looking up anxiously at this new element in his fate.

“Do you think it seemly for a dog to be living in the churchyard, Mr. Brown?” The minister’s voice was merely kind and inquiring, but the caretaker was in fault, and this good English was disconcerting.  However, his conscience acquitted him of moral wrong, and his sturdy Scotch independence came to the rescue.

“Gin a bit dog, wha hands ’is gab, isna seemly, thae pussies are the deil’s ain bairns.”

The minister lifted his hand in rebuke.  “Remember the Sabbath Day.  And I see no cats, Mr. Brown.”

“Ye wullna see ony as lang as the wee doggie is leevin’ i’ the kirkyaird.  An’ the vermin hae sneekit awa’ the first time sin’ Queen Mary’s day.  An’ syne there’s mair singin’ birdies than for mony a year.”

Mr. Traill had listened, unseen.  Now he came forward with a gay challenge in broad Scotch to put the all but routed caretaker at his ease.

“Doctor, I hae a queistion to spier ye.  Which is mair unseemly:  a weel-behavin’ bittie tyke i’ the kirkyaird or a scandalous organ i’ the kirk?”