caretaker sat upon this slab, which testified to the piety and
worth of one Mistress Jean Grant, who had died "lang syne."

Encroached upon, as it was, by unlovely life, Greyfriars kirkyard
was yet a place of solitude and peace. The building had the
dignity that only old age can give. It had lost its tower by an
explosion of gunpowder stored there in war time, and its walls
and many of the ancient tombs bore the marks of fire and shot.
Within the last decade some of the Gothic openings had been
filled with beautiful memorial windows. Despite the horrors and
absurdities and mutilation of much of the funeral sculpturing,
the kirkyard had a sad distinction, such as became its fame as
Scotland's Westminster. And, there was one heavenward outlook and
heavenly view. Over the tallest decaying tenement one could look
up to the Castle of dreams on the crag, and drop the glance all
the way down the pinnacled crest of High Street, to the dark and
deserted Palace of Holyrood. After nightfall the turreted heights
wore a luminous crown, and the steep ridge up to it twinkled with
myriad lights. After a time the caretaker offered a
well-considered opinion.

"The dog maun hae left the kirkyaird. Thae terriers are aye
barkin'. It'd be maist michty noo, gin he'd be so lang i' the
kirkyaird, an' no' mak' a blatterin'."

As a man of superior knowledge Mr. Traill found pleasure in
upsetting this theory. "The Highland breed are no' like ordinar'
terriers. Noisy enough to deave one, by nature, give a bit Skye
a reason and he'll lie a' the day under a whin bush on the brae,
as canny as a fox. You gave Bobby a reason for hiding here by