And happen yo'll meet Th' Owd Un on the road.  Good-day to you,
sir, good-day." 

So you go as he has bidden you; across the stream, skirting the
How, over the gulf and up.  the hill again. 

On the way, as the Master has foretold, you come upon an old gray
dog, trotting soberly along.  Th' Owd Un, indeed, seems to spend
the evening of his life going thus between Kenmuir and the
Grange.  The black muzzle, is almost white now; the gait, formerly
so smooth and strong, is stiff and slow; venerable, indeed, is he of
whom men still talk as the best sheep-dog in the North. 

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 Kennutir.