“Weel, then, bide wi' me, an' ye'll get it ilka hour o' the day, ye sonsie, wee, talon' bit! What are ye hangin' aroond for? Eh—weel—gang awa' wi' ye—laddie!” The landlord sighed and looked down reproachfully. With a delighted yelp, and a lick of the lingering hand, Bobby was off.
It was after three o'clock on this day when he returned to the kirkyard. The caretaker was working at the upper end, and the little dog was lonely. But; long enough absent from his master, Bobby lay down on the grave, in the stillness of the mid-afternoon. The robin made a brief call and, as no other birds were about, hopped upon Bobby's back, perched on his head, and warbled a little song. It was then that the gate clicked. Dismissing her carriage and telling the coachman to return at five, Lady Burdett-Coutts entered the kirkyard.
Bobby trotted around the kirk on the chance of meeting a friend. He looked up intently at the strange lady for a moment, and she stood still and looked down at him. She was not a beautiful lady, nor very young. Indeed, she was a few years older than the Queen, and the Queen was a widowed grandmother. But she had a sweet dignity and warm serenity—an unhurried look, as if she had all the time in the world for a wee dog; and Bobby was an age-whitened muff of a plaintive terrier that captured her heart at once. Very certain that this stranger knew and cared about how he felt, Bobby turned and led her down to Auld Jock's grave. And when she was seated on the table-tomb he came up to her and let her look at his collar, and he stood under her caress, although she spoke to him in fey English, calling him a darling little dog. Then, entirely contented with her company, he lay down, his eyes fixed upon her and lolling his tongue.
The sun was on the green and flowery slope of Greyfriars, warming the weathered tombs and the rear windows of the tenements. The Grand Leddy found a great deal there to interest her beside Bobby and the robin that chirped and picked up crumbs between the little dog's paws. Presently the gate was opened again and a housemaid from some mansion in George Square came around the kirk. Trained by Mistress Jeanie, she was a neat and pretty and pleasant-mannered housemaid, in a black gown and white apron, and with a frilled cap on her crinkly, gold-brown hair that had had more than “a lick or twa the nicht afore.”
“It's juist Ailie,” Bobby seemed to say, as he stood a moment with crested neck and tail. “Ilka body kens Ailie.”
The servant lassie, with an hour out, had stopped to speak to Bobby. She had not meant to stay long, but the lady, who didn't look in the least grand, began to think friendly things aloud.
“The windows of the tenements are very clean.”
“Ay. The bairnies couldna see Bobby gin the windows warna washed.” The lassie was pulling her adored little pet's ears, and Bobby was nuzzling up to her.
“In many of the windows there is a box of flowers, or of kitchen herbs to make the broth savory.”
“It wasna so i' the auld days. It was aye washin's clappin' aboon the stanes. Noo, mony o' the mithers hang the claes oot at nicht. Ilka thing is changed sin' I was a wean an' leevin' i' the auld Guildhall, the bairnies haen Bobby to lo'e, an' no' to be neglectet.” She continued the conversation to include Tammy as he came around the kirk on his tapping crutches.