y threat of
one to the Scotch peasant of a half-century ago was a sentence of death.
Auld Jock blanched, and he shook so that he dropped his spoon. Mr.
Traill hastened to undo the mischief.

"It's no' a doctor ye'll be needing, ava, but a bit dose o' physic an' a
bed in the infirmary a day or twa."

"I wullna gang to the infairmary. It's juist for puir toon bodies that
are aye ailin' an' deein'." Fright and resentment lent the silent old
man an astonishing eloquence for the moment. "Ye wadna gang to the
infairmary yer ainsel', an' tak' charity."

"Would I no'? I would go if I so much as cut my sma' finger; and I would
let a student laddie bind it up for me."

"Weel, ye're a saft ane," said Auld Jock.

It was a terrible word--"saft!" John Traill flushed darkly, and relapsed
into discouraged silence. Deep down in his heart he knew that a regiment
of soldiers from the Castle could not take him alive, a free patient,
into the infirmary.

But what was one to do but "lee," right heartily, for the good of this
very sick, very poor, homeless old man on a night of pitiless storm?
That he had "lee'd" to no purpose and got a "saft" name for it was a
blow to his pride.

Hearing the clatter of fork and spoon, Bobby trotted from behind the bar
and saved the day of discomfiture. Time for dinner, indeed! Up he came
on his hind legs and politely begged his master for food. It was the
prettiest thing he could do, and the landlord delighted in him.

"Gie 'im a penny plate o' the gude broo," said Auld Jock, and he took
the copper coin from his pocket to pay for it. He forgot his own meal
in watching the hungry little creature eat. Warmed and softened by Mr.
Traill's kindness, and by the heartening food, Auld Jock betrayed a
thought that had rankled in the depths of his mind all day.

"Bobby isna ma ain dog." His voice was dull and unhappy.

Ah, here was misery deeper than any physical ill! The penny was his, a
senseless thing; but, poor, old, sick, hameless and kinless, the little
dog that loved and followed him "wasna his ain." To hide the huskiness
in his own voice Mr. Traill relapsed into broad, burry Scotch.

"Dinna fash yersel', man. The wee beastie is maist michty fond o' ye,
an' ilka dog aye chooses 'is ain maister."

Auld Jock shook his head and gave a brief account of Bobby's perversity.
On the very next market-day the little dog must be restored to the
tenant of Cauldbrae farm and, if necessary, tied in the cart. It