At length, the rain moderating somewhat, he issued out from this shelter, and set forth for the town. A tramway-car passed him, but he had no mind to be jammed in amongst a lot of elderly women, all damp and with dripping umbrellas. Nay, he was trying to convince himself that the very discomfort of this dreary march homeward—through mud and drizzle and fog—was a wholesome thing. After that glimpse of the kind of country that lay outside the town—in this direction at least—there would be less temptation for him to throw down his books and go off for idle strolls. He assured himself that he ought to be glad that he found no verdant meadows and purling brooks; that, on the contrary, the aspect of this suburban territory was sufficiently appalling to drive him back to his lodgings. All the same, when he did arrive there, he was somewhat disheartened and depressed; and he went up the stone staircase slowly; and when he entered that solitary, dull little room, and sate down, he felt limp and damp and tired—tired, after a few miles’ walk! And then he took to his books again, with his mouth set hard. Late that night he was sitting as usual alone, and rather absently turning over his papers; and already it had come to this that now, when he chanced to read any of these writings of his of former days, they seemed to have been written by some one else. Who was this man, then, that seemed to go through the world with a laugh and a song, as it were; rating this one, praising that; having it all his own way; and with never a thought of the morrow? But there was one piece in particular that struck home. It was a description of the little terrier; he had pencilled it on the back of an envelope one warm summer day when he was lying at full length on the heather, with Harry not half a dozen yards off, his nose between his paws. Harry did not know that his picture was being taken. _Auld, gray, and grizzled; yellow een;_ _A nose as brown’s a berry;_ _A wit as sharp as ony preen—_ _That’s my wee chieftain Harry._ _Lord sakes!—the courage of the man!_ _The biggest barn-yard ratten,_ _He’ll snip him by the neck, o’er-han’,_ _As he the deil had gatten._ _And when his master’s work on hand,_ _There’s none maun come anear him;_ _The biggest Duke in all Scotland,_ _My Harry’s teeth would fear him._ _But ordinar’ wise like fowl or freen,_ _He’s harmless as a kitten;_ _As soon he’d think o’ worryin’_ _A hennie when she’s sittin’._ _But Harry, lad, ye’re growin’ auld;_ _Your days are gettin’ fewer;_ _And maybe Heaven has made a fauld_ _For such wee things as you are._ _And what strange kintra will that be?_ _And will they fill your coggies?_ _And whatna strange folk there will see_ _There’s water for the doggies?_ _Ae thing I brawly ken; it’s this—_ _Ye may hae work or play there;_ _But if your master once ye miss,_ _I’m bound ye winna stay there._