In his
youth, as under-gardener on a Highland estate, he had learned to
play the piccolo flute, and lately he had revived the pastoral
art of piping just because it went so well with Bobby's delighted
legs. To the sonsie air of "Bonnie Dundee" Bobby hopped and
stepped and louped, and he turned about on his hind feet, his
shagged fore paws drooped on his breast as daintily as the hands
in the portraits of early Victorian ladies. The fire burned
cheerily in the polished grate, and winked on every shining thing
in the room; primroses bloomed in the diamond-paned casement; the
skylark fluttered up and sang in its cage; the fife whistled as
gaily as a blackbird, and the little dog danced with a comic
clumsiness that made them all double up with laughter. The place
was so full of brightness, and of kind and merry hearts, that
there was room for nothing else. Not one of them dreamed that the
shadow of the law was even then over this useful and lovable
little dog's head.
A glance at the wag-at-the-wa' clock reminded Ailie that Mr.
Traill might be waiting for Bobby.
Curious about the mystery, the children took the little dog down
to the gate, happily. They were sobered, however, when Mr. Traill
appeared, looking very grand in his Sabbath clothes. He inspected
Bobby all over with anxious scrutiny, and gave each of the bairns
a threepenny-bit, but he had no blithe greeting for them. Much
preoccupied, he went off at once, with the animated little muff
of a dog at his heels.
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