Bobby followed him to the lodge at an eager trot, and he
dutifully hopped into the bath that was set on the rear doorstep.
Mr. Brown scrubbed him vigorously, and Bobby splashed and swam
and churned the soapy water to foam. He scrambled out at once,
when told to do so, and submitted to being dried with a big,
tow-linen towel. This was all a delightful novelty to Bobby.
Heretofore he had gone into any convenient tam or burn to swim,
and then dried himself by rolling on the heather and running
before the wind. Now he was bundled up ignominiously in an old
flannel petticoat, carried across a sanded kitchen floor and laid
on a warm hearth.
"Doon wi' ye!" was the gruff order. Bobby turned around and
around on the hearth, like some little wild dog making a bed in
the jungle, before he obeyed. He kept very still during the
reading of a chapter and the singing of a Psalm, as he had been
taught to do at the farm by many a reminder from Auld Jock's
boot. And he kept away from the breakfast-table, although the
walls of his stomach were collapsed as flat as the sides of an
empty pocket.
It was such a clean, shining little kitchen, with the scoured
deal table, chairs and cupboard, and the firelight from the grate
winked so on pewter mugs, copper kettle, willow-patterned plates
and diamond panes, that Bobby blinked too. Flowers bloomed in
pots on the casement sills, and a little brown skylark sang,
fluttering as if it would soar, in a gilded cage.
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