quite openly and waited there inside the wicket.

In such nipping weather there were no visitors to the kirkyard
and the gate was not opened. The music bells ran the gamut of old
Scotch airs and ceased, while he sat there and waited patiently.
Once a man stopped to look at the little dog, and Bobby promptly
jumped on the wicket, plainly begging to have it unlatched. But
the passer-by decided that some lady had left her pet behind, and
would return for him. So he patted the attractive little
Highlander on the head and went on about his business.

Discouraged by the unpromising outlook for dinner that day, Bobby
went slowly back to the grave. Twice afterward he made hopeful
pilgrimages to the gate. For diversion he fell noiselessly upon a
prowling cat and chased it out of the kirkyard. At last he sat
upon the table-tomb. He had escaped notice from the tenements all
the morning because the view from most of the windows was blocked
by washings, hung out and dripping, then freezing and clapping
against the old tombs. It was half-past three o'clock when a
tiny, wizened face popped out of one of the rude little windows
in the decayed Cunzie Neuk at the bottom of Candlemakers Row.
Crippled Tammy Barr called out in shrill excitement

"Ailie! O-o-oh, Ailie Lindsey, there's the wee doggie!"

"Whaur?" The lassie's elfin face looked out from a low, rear
window of the Candlemakers' Guildhall at the top of the Row.

"On the stane by the kirk wa'."