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