As he passes, he pauses to scan you. The noble head is high, and one foot raised; and you look into two big gray eyes such as you have never seen before--soft, a little dim, and infinitely sad. That is Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, of whom the tales are many as the flowers on the May. With him dies the last of the immortal line of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir. * * * * * You travel on up the bill, something pensive, and knock at the door of the house on the top. A woman, comely with the inevitable comeliness of motherhood, opens to you. And nestling in her arms is a little boy with golden hair and happy face, like one of Correggio's cherubs. You ask the child his name. He kicks and crows, and looks up at his mother; and in the end lisps roguishly, as if it was the merriest joke in all this merry world, “Adum Mataddum.” * * * * * End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bob, Son of Battle, by Alfred Ollivant