daisies, covered the sunken mound so that some of them had to be moved
to make room for Bobby. He sniffed and sniffed at them, looked up
inquiringly at Mr. Traill; and then snuggled down contentedly among
the blossoms. He did not understand their being there any more than
he understood the collar about which everybody made such a to-do. The
narrow band of leather would disappear under his thatch again, and would
be unnoticed by the casual passer-by; the flowers would fade and never
be so lavishly renewed; but there was another more wonderful gift, now,
that would never fail him.

At nightfall, before the drum and bugle sounded the tattoo to call the
scattered garrison in the Castle, there took place a loving ceremony
that was never afterward omitted as long as Bobby lived. Every child
newly come to the tenements learned it, every weanie lisped it among his
first words. Before going to bed each bairn opened a casement. Sometimes
a candle was held up--a little star of love, glimmering for a moment on
the dark; but always there was a small face peering into the melancholy
kirkyard. In midsummer, and at other seasons if the moon rose full and
early and the sky was clear, Bobby could be seen on the grave. And when
he recovered from these hurts he trotted about, making the circuit below
the windows. He could not speak there, because he had been forbidden,
but he could wag his tail and look up to show his friendliness. And
whether the children saw him or not they knew he was always there after
sunset, keeping watch and ward, and "lanely" because his master had gone
away to heaven; and so they called out to him sweetly and clearly:

"A gude nicht to ye, Bobby."

XII.

In one thing Mr. Traill had been mistaken: the grand folk did not forget
Bobby. At the end of five years the leal Highlander was not only still
remembered, but he had become a local celebrity.

Had the grave of his haunting been on the Pentlands or in one of the
outlying cemeteries of the city Bobby must have been known to few of his
generation, and to fame not at all. But among churchyards Greyfriars was
distinguished. One of the historic show-places of Edinburgh, and in
the very heart of the Old Town, it was never missed by the most hurried
tourist, seldom left unvisited, from year to year, by the oldest
resident. Names on its old tombs had come to mean nothing to those
who read them, except as they recalled memorable records of love,
of inspiration