ose the baize door at the top
of the kitchen stairs--thank you--and now this one--I am obliged. One
cannot hear oneself speak for that terrible animal)--you must get rid of
the cur to-morrow."

"Oh, Aunt! he's not a cur--he's pure-bred."

"Thank you," said the Aunt, "I believe I am as good a judge of dogs as
any lady. My own dear Snubs has only been dead a year and two months
last Tuesday. I know that a well-bred dog should have smooth hair, at
any rate----"

The mother of Snubs had been distantly related to a family of
respectable middle-class fox-terriers.

"I am very sorry," said Judy. She meant apology, but the Aunt took it
for sympathy, and softened somewhat.

"A nice little smooth-coated dog now," she said, "a fox-terrier, or an
Italian greyhound; you see I am not ignorant of the names of various
patterns of dog. I will get you one myself; we will go to the Dogs' Home
at Battersea, where really nice dogs are often sold quite cheap. Or
perhaps they might take your poor cur in exchange."

Judy began to cry.

"Yes, cry, my dear," said the Aunt kindly; "it will do you a world of
good."

When the Aunt was asleep--she had closed her ears to the protests of
Alcibiades with wadding left over from a handkerchief sachet--Judy crept
down in her woolly white dressing-gown, and coaxed the kitchen fire back
to life. Then she sat in front of it, on the speckless rag carpet, and
nursed Alcibiades and scolded him, and explained that he really must be
a good dog, and that we all have something to put up with in this life.

"You know, Alby dear," she said, "it's not very nice for me either, but
_I_ don't howl and try to upset mangles. Don't you be afraid, dear: you
shan't go to the Dogs' Home."

So kindly, yet strongly, did she urge her point that Alcibiades, tied to
the leg of the kitchen table, consented to sleep quietly for the rest of
the night.

Next day, when the Aunt enquired searchingly as to Judy's powers of
fancywork, and what she would do for the bazaar, Judy declared outright
that she did not know one end of a needle from the other.

"But I can paint a little," she said, "and I am rather good at
wood-carving."

"That will be very nice." The Aunt already saw, in fancy, her stall
outshine those of all other Tabbies, with glories of sabots and
tambourines decorated with rosy sprays "hand-painted," and carved white
wood boxes just the size to hold nothing useful.

"And I'll do you some," said Judy; "only I