V.

Word had been left at all the inns and carting offices about both
markets for the tenant of Cauldbrae farm to call at Mr. Traill's
place for Bobby. The man appeared Wednesday afternoon, driving a
big Clydesdale horse to a stout farm cart. The low-ceiled
dining-room suddenly shrank about the big-boned, long legged hill
man. The fact embarrassed him, as did also a voice cultivated out
of all proportion to town houses, by shouting to dogs and
shepherds on windy shoulders of the Pentlands.

"Hae ye got the dog wi' ye?"

Mr. Train pointed to Bobby, deep in a blissful, after dinner nap
under the settle.

The farmer breathed a sigh of relief, sat at a table, and ate a
frugal meal of bread and cheese. As roughly dressed as Auld Jock,
in a metal-buttoned greatcoat of hodden gray, a woolen bonnet,
and the shepherd's twofold plaid, he was a different species of
human being altogether. A long, lean, sinewy man of early middle
age, he had a smooth-shaven, bony jaw, far-seeing gray eyes under
furzy brows, and a shock of auburn hair. When he spoke, it was to
give bits out of his own experience.

"Thae terriers are usefu' eneugh on an ordinar' fairm an' i' the
toon to keep awa' the vermin, but I wadna gie a twa-penny-bit for
ane o' them on a sheep-fairm. There's a wee lassie at Cauldbrae
wha wants Bobby for a pet. It wasna richt for Auld Jock to win