This
last week, at the General Assembly, I heard of the wee Highlander
from several sources. The tales of his escapes from the
sheep-farm have grown into a sort of Odyssey of the Pentlands. I
think, perhaps, if you had not continued to feed him, Mr. Traill,
he might have remained at his old home."
"Nae, I'm no' thinking so, and I was no' willing to risk the
starvation of the bonny, leal Highlander."
Until the stars came out Mr. Traill sat there telling the story.
At mention of his master's name Bobby returned to the mound and
stretched himself across it. "I will go before the kirk officers,
Doctor Lee, and tak' full responseebility. Mr. Brown is no' to
blame. It would have tak'n a man with a heart of trap-rock to
have turned the woeful bit dog out."
"He is well cared for and is of a hardy breed, so he is not
likely to suffer; but a dog, no more than a man, cannot live on
bread alone. His heart hungers for love."
"Losh!" cried Mr. Brown. "Are ye thinkin' he isna gettin' it? Oor
bairns are a' oot o' the hame nest, an' ma woman, Jeanie, is fair
daft aboot Bobby, aye thinkin' he'll tak' the measles. An' syne,
there's a' the tenement bairns cryin' oot on 'im ilka meenit, an'
ane crippled laddie he een lets fondle 'im."
"Still, it would be better if he belonged to some one master.
Everybody's dog is nobody's dog," the minister insisted. "I wish
you could attach him to you, Mr. Traill."
"Ay, it's a disappointment to me that he'll no' bide with me.
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