The wifie considered this ruefully. "Jamie, I was wishin' ye
didna hae to--"

But what she wished he did not have to do, Mr. Brown did not stop
to hear. He suddenly clapped his bonnet on his head and went out.
He had an urgent errand on High Street, to buy grass and flower
seeds and tools that would certainly be needed in April. It took
him an hour or more of shrewd looking about for the best
bargains, in a swarm of little barnacle and cellar shops, to
spend a few of the kirk's shillings. When he found himself, to
his disgust, looking at a nail studded collar for a little dog he
called himself a "doited auld fule," and tramped back across the
bridge.

At the kirkyard gate he stopped and read the notice through
twice: "No dogs permitted." That was as plain as "Thou shalt
not." To the pious caretaker and trained servant it was the
eleventh commandment. He shook his head, sighed, and went in to
dinner. Bobby was not in the house, and the master of it avoided
inquiring for him. He also avoided the wifie's wistful eye, and
he busied himself inside the two kirks all the afternoon.

Because he was in the kirks, and the beautiful memorial windows
of stained glass were not for the purpose of looking out, he did
not see a dramatic incident that occurred in the kirkyard after
three o'clock in the afternoon. The prelude to it really began
with the report of the timegun at one. Bobby had insisted upon
being let out of the lodge kitchen, and had spent the morning
near Auld Jock's grave and in nosing about neighboring slabs and
thorn bushes. When the time-gun boomed he trotted to the gate