can't work if I'm distracted
about Alby--my dog, you know. Oh, Aunt, _do_ let him stay! He really is
valuable, and he hasn't made a bit of noise since last night."

"It is quite useless," the Aunt was sternly beginning--then suddenly her
voice changed. "Is the cur _really_ valuable?" she asked.

"Uncle Reggie gave five guineas for him when he was a baby boy," said
Judy eagerly, "and he's worth much more now."

"But he must be very old--when your Uncle Reggie was a boy----"

"I mean when Alcibiades was a boy."

"And who is Alcibiades?"

Judy began all over again, and urged one or two new points.

"I don't want to be harsh," said the Aunt at last, "you _shall_ have the
little breakfast room to paint and carve in as you suggest. Of course I
couldn't have shavings and paint pots lying about all over the
dining-room and drawing-room. And you shall keep your cur."

"Oh, Aunty," cried Judy, "you are a darling!"

"Yes," the Aunt went on complacently, "you shall keep your cur till the
bazaar, and then we will sell it for the benefit of the Fund for the
Amelioration of the Daughters of the Country Clergy."

And from this decision no tears and no entreaties would move her.

Judy made a den for herself and Alcibiades in the little breakfast room.
There was no painting light--so she looked out a handful of the sketches
that she had done last summer and framed them. Most of her time she
spent in writing to her friends to know whether any one could take care
of a darling dog, who was a perfect angel. And alas! no one could--or
would.

With the connivance of the cook, Alcibiades had a bed in a box in the
den, and from the very first he would at a word conceal himself in it
the moment the step of the Aunt sounded on the oil-cloth-covered stairs.
The sketches were framed, and some of the frames were lightly carved.
The Aunt was enchanted, but, on the subject of Alcibiades, adamant.

And now it was the day of the bazaar. Judy had run wires along the wall
of the schoolroom behind her Aunt's stall, and from it hung the best of
the sketches. She had arranged the stall herself, glorifying it with the
Eastern shawls and draperies that her father had sent her from India. It
did far outshine any other stall, even that of Lady Bates, the wife of
the tallow Knight. The Aunt was really grateful--truly appreciative.
But her mind was made up about the "cur."

"If it really _is_ worth anything we'll sell it. If not----" She paused
on