figure and peaceful face of the pious old shepherd within it, had
the dignity and beauty of some monumental tomb and carved effigy
in old Greyfriars kirkyard. Only less strange was the contrast
between the marks of poverty and toil on the dead man and the
dainty grace of the little fluff of a dog that mourned him.

No such men as these--officers of her Majesty the Queen, Burgh
policemen, and learned doctors from the Royal Infirmary--had ever
been aware of Auld Jock, living. Dead, and no' needing them any
more, they stood guard over him, and inquired sternly as to the
manner in which he had died. There was a hysterical breath of
relief from the crowd of lodgers and tenants when the little pile
of coins was found on the Bible. There had been no foul play.
Auld Jock had died of heart failure, from pneumonia and worn-out
old age.

"There's eneugh," a Burgh policeman said when the money was
counted. He meant much the same thing Auld Jock himself had
meant. There was enough to save him from the last indignity a
life of useful labor can thrust upon the honest poor--pauper
burial. But when inquiries were made for the name and the friends
of this old man there appeared to be only "Auld Jock" to enter
into the record, and a little dog to follow the body to the
grave. It was a Bible reader who chanced to come in from the
Medical Mission in the Cowgate who thought to look in the
fly-leaf of Auld Jock's Bible.

"His name is John Gray."

He laid the worn little book on Auld Jock's breast and crossed