In truth, Ailie was one of those fortunate lassies whose crinkly,
gold-brown mop really looked best when in some disorder; and of that
advantage the little maid was well aware.

"I ken a' that, Tammy. I aye gie it a lick or twa wi' a comb the nicht
afore. Ca' the wee doggie."

Bobby fully understood that he was wanted for some serious purpose, but
it was a fresh morning of dew and he, apparently, was in the highest of
spirits. So he gave Ailie a chase over the sparkling grass and under the
showery shrubbery. When he dropped at last on Auld Jock's grave
Tammy captured him. The little dog could always be caught there, in a
caressable state of exhaustion or meditation, for, sooner or later, he
returned to the spot from every bit of work or play. No one would have
known it for a place of burial at all. Mr. Brown knew it only by the
rose bush at its head and by Bobby's haunting it, for the mound had
sunk to the general level of the terrace on which it lay, and spreading
crocuses poked their purple and gold noses through the crisp spring
turf. But for the wee, guardian dog the man who lay beneath had long
lost what little identity he had ever possessed.

Now, as the three lay there, the lassie as flushed and damp as some
water-nymph, Bobby panting and submitting to a petting, Tammy took the
little dog's muzzle between his thin hands, parted the veil, and looked
into the soft brown eyes.

"Leak, Ailie, Bobby's wantin' somethin', an' is juist haudin' 'imsel'."

It was true. For all his gaiety in play and his energy at work Bobby's
eyes had ever a patient, wistful look, not unlike the crippled laddie's.
Ah, who can say that it did not require as much courage and gallant
bravado on the part of that small, bereft creature to enable him to live
at all, as it did for Tammy to face his handicapped life and "no' to
remember 'is bad legs"?

In the bath on the rear steps of the lodge Bobby swam and splashed, and
scattered foam with his excited tail. He would not stand still to be
groomed, but wriggled and twisted and leaped upon the children, putting
his shaggy wet paws roguishly in their faces. But he stood there at
last, after the jolliest romp, in which the old kirkyard rang with
laughter, and oh! so bonny, in his rippling coat of dark silver. No
sooner was he released than he dashed around the kirk and back again,
bringing his latest bone in his mouth. To his scratching on the stone
sill, for he had been taught not to scratch