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'."
"I see 'im noo. Isna he bonny? I wish Bobby could bide i' the
kirkyaird, but they wadna let 'im. Tammy, gin ye tak' 'im up to
Maister Traill, he'll gie ye the shullin'!"
"I couldna tak' 'im by ma lane," was the pathetic confession.
"Wad ye gang wi' me, Ailie? Ye could drap ower an' catch 'im, an'
I could come by the gate. Faither made me some grand crutches
frae an' auld chair back."
Tears suddenly drowned the lassie's blue eyes and ran down her
pinched little cheeks. "Nae, I couldna gang. I haena ony shoon to
ma feet."
"It's no' so cauld. Gin I had twa guile feet I could gang the bit
way wi'oot shoon."
"I ken it isna so cauld," Ailie admitted, "but for a lassie it's
no' respectable to gang to a grand place barefeeted."
That was undeniable, and the eager children fell silent and
tearful.
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