“Hoo mony years is it, Tammy, sin' Bobby's been leevin' i' the auld kirkyaird? At Maister Traill's snawy picnic ye war five gangin' on sax.” They exchanged glances in which lay one of the happy memories of sad childhoods.
“Noo I'm nineteen going on twenty. It's near fourteen years syne, Ailie.” Nearly all the burrs had been pulled from Tammy's tongue, but he used a Scotch word now and then, no' to shame Ailie's less cultivated speech.
“So long?” murmured the Grand Leddy. “Bobby is getting old, very old for a terrier.”
As if to deny that, Bobby suddenly shot down the slope in answer to a cry of alarm from a song thrush. Still good for a dash, when he came back he dropped panting. The lady put her hand on his rippling coat and felt his heart pounding. Then she looked at his worn down teeth and lifted his veil. Much of the luster was gone from Bobby's brown eyes, but they were still soft and deep and appealing.
From the windows children looked down upon the quiet group and, without in the least knowing why they wanted to be there, too, the tenement bairns began to drop into the kirkyard. Almost at once it rained—a quick, bright, dashing shower that sent them all flying and laughing up to the shelter of the portico to the new kirk. Bobby scampered up, too, and with the bairns in holiday duddies crowding about her, and the wee dog lolling at her feet, the Grand Leddy talked fairy stories.
She told them all about a pretty country place near London. It was called Holly Lodge because its hedges were bright with green leaves and red berries, even in winter. A lady who had no family at all lived there, and to keep her company she had all sorts of pets. Peter and Prince were the dearest dogs, and Cocky was a parrot that could say the most amusing things. Sir Garnet was the llama goat, or sheep—she didn't know which. There was a fat and lazy old pony that had long been pensioned off on oats and clover, and—oh yes—the white donkey must not be forgotten!
“O-o-o-oh! I didna ken there wad be ony white donkeys!” cried a big-eyed laddie.
“There cannot be many, and there's a story about how the lady came to have this one. One day, driving in a poor street, she saw a coster—that is a London peddler—beating his tired donkey that refused to pull the load. The lady got out of her carriage, fed the animal some carrots from the cart, talked kindly to him right into his big, surprised ear, and stroked his nose. Presently the poor beast felt better and started off cheerfully with the heavy cart. When many costers learned that it was not only wicked but foolish to abuse their patient animals, they hunted for a white donkey to give the lady. They put a collar of flowers about his neck, and brought him up on a platform before a crowd of people. Everybody laughed, for he was a clumsy and comical beast to be decorated with roses and daisies. But the lady is proud of him, and now that pampered donkey has nothing to do but pull her Bath chair about, when she is at Holly Lodge, and kick up his heels on a clover pasture.”
“Are ye kennin' anither tale, Leddy?”
“Oh, a number of them. Prince, the fox terrier, was ill once, and the doctor who came to see him said his mistress gave him too much to eat. That was very probable, because that lady likes to see children and animals have too much to eat. There are dozens and dozens of poor children that the lady knows and loves. Once they lived in a very dark and dirty and crowded tenement, quite as bad as some that were torn down in the Cowgate and the Grassmarket.”