to folic that ken them, an' syne they tak' to ithers. Dinna fash
yersel' aboot 'im. He wullna greet lang."

Since Bobby would not go, there was nothing to do but leave him
there; but it was with many a backward look and disturbing doubt
that the good man turned away. The grave-digger finished his task
cheerfully, shouldered his tools, and left the kirkyard. The
early dark was coming on when the caretaker, in making his last
rounds, found the little terrier flattened out on the new-made
mound.

"Gang awa' oot!" he ordered. Bobby looked up pleadingly and
trembled, but he made no motion to obey. James Brown was not an
unfeeling man, and he was but doing his duty. From an impulse of
pity for this bonny wee bit of loyalty and grief he picked Bobby
up, carried him all the way to the gate and set him over the
wicket on the pavement.

"Gang awa' hame, noo," he said, kindly. "A kirkya'rd isna a
place for a bit dog to be leevin'."

Bobby lay where he had been dropped until the caretaker was out
of sight. Then, finding the aperture under the gate too small for
him to squeeze through, he tried, in his ancestral way, to
enlarge it by digging. He scratched and scratched at the
unyielding stone until his little claws were broken and his
toes bleeding, before he stopped and lay down with his nose under
the wicket.

Just before the closing hour a carriage stopped at the