"Nae doubt the gude auld man would rather be alive on the
Pentland braes than dead in Greyfriars."

"Ay," the farmer admitted. "He was fair fond o' the hills, an'
no' likin' the toon. An', moil, he was a wonder wi' the lambs.
He'd gang wi' a collie ower miles o' country in roarin' weather,
an' he'd aye fetch the lost sheep hame. The auld moil was nane so
weel furnished i' the heid, but bairnies and beasts were unco'
fond o' 'im. It wasna his fau't that Bobby was aye at his heels.
The lassie wad 'a' been after'im, gin 'er mither had permeeted
it."

Mr. Traill asked him why he had let so valuable a man go, and the
farmer replied at once that he was getting old and could no
longer do the winter work. To any but a Scotchman brought up near
the sheep country this would have sounded hard, but Mr. Traill
knew that the farmers on the wild, tipped-up moors were
themselves hard pressed to meet rent and taxes. To keep a
shepherd incapacitated by age and liable to lose a flock in a
snow-storm, was to invite ruin. And presently the man showed,
unwittingly, how sweet a kernel the heart may lie under the shell
of sordid necessity.

"I didna ken the auld man was fair ill or he micht hae bided at
the fairm an' tak'n 'is ain time to dee at 'is ease."

As Bobby unrolled and stretched to an awakening, the farmer got
up, took him unaware and thrust him into a covered basket. He had
no intention of letting the little creature give him the slip
again. Bobby howled at the indignity, and struggled and tore at