'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