know, in truth, what Bobby's ultimate fate might be. But little
over nine years of age, he should live only five or six years
longer at most. Of his friends, Mr. Brown was ill and aging, and
might have to give place to a younger man. He himself was in his
prime, but he could not be certain of living longer than this
hardy little dog. For the first time he realized the truth of Dr.
Lee's saying that everybody's dog was nobody's dog. The tenement
children held Bobby in a sort of community affection. He was the
special pet of the Heriot laddies, but a class was sent into the
world every year and was scattered far. Not one of all the
hundreds of bairns who had known and loved this little dog could
give him any real care or protection.

For the rest, Bobby had remained almost unknown. Many of the
congregations of old and new Greyfriars had never seen or heard
of him. When strangers were about he seemed to prefer lying in
his retreat under the fallen tomb. His Sunday-afternoon naps he
usually took in the lodge kitchen. And so, it might very well
happen that his old age would be friendless, that he would come
to some forlorn end, and be carried away on the dustman's cart.
It might, indeed, be better for him to end his days in love and
honor in the Castle. But to this solution of the problem Mr.
Traill himself was not reconciled.

Sensing some shifting of the winds in the man's soul, Bobby
trotted over to lick his hand. Then he sat up on the hearth and
lolled his tongue, reminding the good landlord that he had one
cheerful friend to bear him company on the blaw-weary day. It was
thus they sat, companionably, when a Burgh policeman who was well
known to Mr. Traill came in to dry himself by the fire. Gloomy