This argument was so convincing and so attractive that the little
maid dried her tears, kissed Bobby on the head again, and made a
bed of heather for him in a corner. But as they were leaving the
byre fresh doubts assailed her.

"He'll gang awa' gin ye dinna tie 'im snug the nicht, faither."

"Sic a fulish bairn! Wi' fower wa's aroond 'im, an' a roof to 'is
heid, an' a floor to 'is fut, hoo could a sma' dog mak' a way
oot?"

It was a foolish notion, bred of fond anxiety, and so, reassured,
the child went happily back to the house and to rosy sleep in her
little closet bed.

Ah! here was a warm place in a cold world for Bobby. A
soft-hearted little mistress and merry playmate was here,
generous food, and human society of a kind that was very much to
a little farm dog's liking. Here was freedom--wide moors to
delight his scampering legs, adventures with rabbits, foxes,
hares and moor-fowl, and great spaces where no one's ears would
be offended by his loudest, longest barking. Besides, Auld Jock
had said, with his last breath, "Gang--awa'--hame--laddie!" It is
not to be supposed Bobby had forgotten that, since he remembered
and obeyed every other order of that beloved voice. But there,
self-interest, love of liberty, and the instinct of obedience,
even, sank into the abysses of the little creature's mind. Up to
the top rose the overmastering necessity of guarding the bit of
sacred earth that covered his master.