separated from Auld Jock that November morning. The tenant of
Cauldbrae farm had driven the cart in, himself, and that was
unusual. Immediately he had driven out again, leaving Auld Jock
behind, and that was quite outside Bobby's brief experience of
life. Beguiled to the lofty and coveted driver's seat where, with
lolling tongue, he could view this interesting world between the
horse's ears, Bobby had been spirited out of the city and carried
all the way down and up to the hilltop toll-bar of Fairmilehead.
It could not occur to his loyal little heart that this treachery
was planned nor, stanch little democrat that he was, that the
farmer was really his owner, and that he could not follow a
humbler master of his own choosing. He might have been carried to
the distant farm, and shut safely in the byre with the cows for
the night, but for an incautious remark of the farmer. With the
first scent of the native heather the horse quickened his pace,
and, at sight of the purple slopes of the Pentlands looming
homeward, a fond thought at the back of the man's mind very
naturally took shape in speech.

"Eh, Bobby; the wee lassie wull be at the tap o' the brae to race
ye hame."

Bobby pricked his drop ears. Within a narrow limit, and
concerning familiar things, the understanding of human speech by
these intelligent little terriers is very truly remarkable. At
mention of the wee lassie he looked behind for his rough old
friend and unfailing refuge. Auld Jock's absence discovered,
Bobby promptly dropped from the seat of honor and from the cart
tail, sniffed the smoke of Edinboro' town and faced right about.
To the farmer's peremptory call he returned the spicy repartee of