sudden beacon to shepherds scattered afar on these upland billows
of heath. In a moment the basket was in the house, the door
snecked, and Bobby released on the hearth.

It was a beautiful, dark old kitchen, with a homely fire of peat
that glowed up to smoke-stained rafters. Soon it was full of
shepherds, come in to a supper of brose, cheese, milk and
bannocks. Sheep-dogs sprawled and dozed on the hearth, so that
the gude wife complained of their being underfoot. But she left
them undisturbed and stepped over them, for, tired as they were,
they would have to go out again to drive the sheep into the fold.

Humiliated by being brought home a prisoner, and grieving for the
forsaken grave in Greyfriars, Bobby crept away to a corner bench,
on which Auld Jock had always sat in humble self-effacement. He
lay down under it, and the little four year-old lassie sat on
the floor close beside him, understanding, and sorry with him.
Her rough brother Wattie teased her about wanting her supper
there on one plate with Bobby.

"I wadna gang daft aboot a bit dog, Elsie."

"Leave the bairn by 'er lane," commanded the farmer. The mither
patted the child's bright head, and wiped the tears from the
bluebell eyes. And there was a little sobbing confidence poured
into a sympathetic ear.

Bobby refused to eat at first, but by and by he thought better of
it. A little dog that has his life to live and his work to do
must have fuel to drive the throbbing engine of his tiny heart.