Bobby had not gone this way homeward before, and was puzzled by the smell of prosperous little shops, and by the park-like odors from college campuses to the east, and from the well-kept residence park of George Square. But when the cart rattled across Lauriston Place he picked up the familiar scents of milk and wool from the cattle and sheep market, and then of cottage dooryards, of turned furrows and of farmsteads.

The earth wears ever a threefold garment of beauty. The human person usually manages to miss nearly everything but the appearance of things.

A few of us are so fortunate as to have ears attuned to the harmonies woven on the wind by trees and birds and water; but the tricky weft of odors that lies closest of all, enfolding the very bosom of the earth, escapes us. A little dog, traveling with his nose low, lives in another stratum of the world, and experiences other pleasures than his master.

He has excitements that he does his best to share, and that send him flying in pursuit of phantom clues.

From the top of the Burghmuir it was easy going to Bobby. The snow had gone off in a thaw, releasing a mult.i.tude of autumnal aromas. There was a smell of birch and beech buds sealed up in gum, of berries clotted on the rowan-trees, and of balsam and spice from plantations of Highland firs and larches. The babbling water of the burn was scented with the dead bracken of glens down which it foamed. Even the leafless hedges had their woody odors, and stone d.y.k.es their musty smell of decaying mosses and lichens.

Bobby knew the pause at the toll-bar in the valley, and the mixed odors of many pa.s.sing horses and men, there. He knew the smells of poultry and cheese at a dairy-farm; of hunting dogs and riding-leathers at a sportsman's trysting inn, and of grist and polluted water at a mill.

And after pa.s.sing the hilltop toll-bar of Fairmilehead, dipping across a narrow valley and rounding the base of a sentinel peak, many tame odors were left behind. At the buildings of the large, scattered farms there were smells of sheep, and dogs and barn yards. But, for the most part, after the road began to climb over a high shoulder of the range, there was just one wild tang of heather and gorse and fern, tingling with salt air from the German Ocean.

When they reached Cauldbrae farm, high up on the slope, it was entirely dark. Lights in the small, deep-set windows gave the outlines of a low, steep-roofed, stone farm-house. Out of the darkness a little wind blown figure of a la.s.sie fled down the brae to meet the cart, and an eager little voice, as clear as a hill-bird's piping, cried out:

"Hae ye got ma ain Bobby, faither?"

"Ay, la.s.sie, I fetched 'im hame," the farmer roared back, in his big voice.

Then the cart was stopped for the wee maid to scramble up over a wheel, and there were sweet little sounds of kissing and m.u.f.fled little cuddlings under the warm plaid. When these soft endearments had been attended to there was time for another yearning.

"May I haud wee Bobby, faither?"

"Nae, la.s.sie, a bonny bit bairnie couldna haud 'im in 'er sma' airms.

Bobby's a' for gangin' awa' to leev in a grand kirkyaird wi' Auld Jock."

A little gasp, and a wee sob, and an awed question: "Is gude Auld Jock deid, daddy?"

Bobby heard it and answered with a mournful howl. The la.s.sie snuggled closer to the warm, beating heart, hid her eyes in the rough plaid, and cried for Auld Jock and for the grieving little dog.

"Niest to faither an' mither an' big brither Wattie I lo'e Auld Jock an'

Bobby." The bairnie's voice was smothered in the plaidie. Because it was dark and none were by to see, the reticent Scot could overflow in tender speech. His arm tightened around this one little ewe lamb of the human fold on cold slope farm. He comforted the child by telling her how they would mak' it up to Bobby, and how very soon a wee dog forgets the keenest sorrow and is happy again.

The sheep-dogs charged the cart with as deafening a clamor of welcome as if a home-coming had never happened before, and raced the horse across the level. The kitchen door flared open, a 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 la.s.sie 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. So Bobby very sensibly ate a good supper in the la.s.sie's company and, grateful for that and for her sympathy, submitted to her shy petting. But after the shepherds and dogs were gone and the farmer had come in again from an overseeing look about the place the little dog got up, trotted to the door, and lay down by it. The la.s.sie followed him. With two small, plump hands she pushed Bobby's silver veil back, held his muzzle and looked into his sad, brown eyes.

"Oh, mither, mither, Bobby's greetin'," she cried.

"Nae, bonny wee, a sma' dog canna greet."

"Ay, he's greetin' sair!" A sudden, sweet little sound was dropped on Bobby's head.

"Ye shouldna kiss the bit dog, bairnie. He isna like a human body."

"Ay, a wee kiss is gude for 'im. Faither, he greets so I canna thole it." The child fled to comforting arms in the inglenook and cried herself to sleep. The gude wife knitted, and the gude mon smoked by the pleasant fire. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the wag at the wa' clock, for burning peat makes no noise at all, only a pungent whiff in the nostrils, the memory of which gives a Scotch laddie abroad a fit of hamesickness. Bobby lay very still and watchful by the door.

The farmer served his astonishing news in dramatic bits.

"Auld Jock's deid." Bobby stirred at that, and flattened out on the floor.

"Ay, the la.s.sie told that, an' I wad hae kenned it by the dog. He is greetin' by the ordinar'."

"An' he's buried i' the kirkyaird o' auld Greyfriars." Ah, that fetched her! The gude wife dropped her knitting and stared at him.

"There's a gairdener, like at the country-hooses o' the gentry, leevin'

in a bit lodge by the gate. He has naethin' to do, ava, but lock the gate at nicht, put the dogs oot, an' mak' the posies bloom i' the simmer. Ay, it's a bonny place."

"It's ower grand for Auld Jock."

"Ye may weel say that. His bit grave isna so far frae the martyrs'

monument." When the grandeur of that had sunk in he went on to other incredibilities.

Presently he began to chuckle. "There's a bit notice on the gate that nae dogs are admittet, but Bobby's sleepit on Auld Jock's grave ane--twa--three--fower nichts, an' the gairdener doesna ken it, ava.

He's a canny beastie."

"Ay, he is. Folk wull be comin' frae miles aroond juist to leuk at thesperity bit. Ilka body aboot kens Auld Jock. It'll be maist michty news to tell at the kirk on the Sabbath, that he's buried i'

Greyfriars."

Through all this talk Bobby had lain quietly by the door, in the expectation that it would be unlatched. Impatient of delay, he began to whimper and to scratch on the panel. The la.s.sie opened her blue eyes at that, scrambled down, and ran to him. Instantly Bobby was up, tugging at her short little gown and begging to be let out. When she clasped her chubby arms around his neck and tried to comfort him he struggled free and set up a dreadful howling.

"Hoots, Bobby, stap yer havers!" shouted the farmer.

"Eh, la.s.sie, he'll deave us a'. We'll juist hae to put 'im i' the byre wi' the coos for the nicht," cried the distracted mither.

"I want Bobby i' the bed wi' me. I'll cuddle 'im an' lo'e 'im till he staps greetin'."

"Nae, bonny wee, he wullna stap." The farmer picked the child up on one arm, gripped the dog under the other, and the gude wife went before with a lantern, across the dark farmyard to the cow-barn. When the stout door was unlatched there was a smell of warm animals, of milk, and cured hay, and the sound of full, contented breathings that should have brought a sense of companionship to a grieving little creature.

"Bobby wullna be lanely here wi' the coos, bairnie, an' i' the morn ye can tak' a bit rope an' haud it in a wee hand so he canna brak awa', an' syne, in a day or twa, he'll be forgettin' Auld Jock. Ay, ye'll hae grand times wi' the sonsie doggie, rinnin' an' loupin' on the braes."

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 a.s.sailed 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, rea.s.sured, 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 s.p.a.ces 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.

The byre was no sooner locked than Bobby began, in the pitch darkness, to explore the walls. The single promise of escape that was offered was an inch-wide crack under the door, where the flooring stopped short and exposed a strip of earth. That would have appalled any but a desperate little dog. The crack was so small as to admit but one paw, at first, and the earth was packed as hard as wood by generations of trampling cattle.

There he began to dig. He came of a breed of dogs used by farmers and hunters to dig small, burrowing animals out of holes, a breed whose courage and persistence know no limit. He dug patiently, steadily, hour after hour, enlarging the hole by inches. Now and then he had to stop to rest. When he was able to use both forepaws he made encouraging progress; but when he had to reach under the door, quite the length of his stretched legs, and drag every bit of earth back into the byre, the task must have been impossible to any little creature not urged by utter misery. But Skye terriers have been known to labor with such fury that they have perished of their own exertions. Bobby's nose sniffed liberty long before he could squeeze his weasel-like body through the tunnel.

His back bruised and strained by the struggle through a hole too small, he stood, trembling with exhaustion, in the windy dawn.