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
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.
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