d all these poor dear
people were gentlefolk, but these two were of her world. As she gazed
her eyes and those of the man met; the lady was lost in the crowd, and
Judy saw her no more. The man made straight for the stall where were the
framed sketches, the white dress, fur-trimmed, the russet hair and green
eyes of Judy, and the brownly-black, blue-ribboned Alcibiades. But
before he reached them a wave of buyers broke on the shore of Judy's
stall, and he had been watching her for nearly half an hour before a
young woman's long-deferred choice of a Christmas gift for a grandfather
fell happily on a pair of purple bed-socks, and, for the moment, Judy
breathed free.

"I told you so," said the Aunt, rattling money in a leather bag; "I
_knew_ just before Christmas was _the_ time. Everybody _has_ to give
Christmas presents to all their relations. You see! the things are going
like wildfire."

"Yes, Aunt," said Judy. Alcibiades took advantage of the momentary calm
to lick her hand exhaustively. Judy wondered wearily what had become of
the man, the only man in that cheerless assembly who looked as though he
liked dogs. "He must have been trying to get somewhere else," she said;
"he just looked in here by mistake, and when he saw the sort of people
we were, he--well--I don't wonder," she sighed, and, raising her eyes,
met his.

"I beg your pardon," said he. He meant apology.

She took it for enquiry, and smiled. "Do you want to buy something?" she
asked.

Her smile was more tired than she knew.

"I suppose I do," he said; "one does at bazaars, don't you know."

"Do you want a Christmas present?" asked Judy, businesslike; "if so, and
if you will tell me what kind of relation you want it for, perhaps I can
find something that they'd like."

"Could you? Now, that is really good. I want things for two aunts, three
cousins, a little sister, and my mother--but I needn't get _hers_ here
unless you've got something you think really--By Jove!"--his eyes had
caught the sketches--"are _those_ for sale?"

"That is rather the idea," said Judy. Her spirits were rising, though
she couldn't have told you why. "Things at a bazaar are usually for
sale, aren't they?"

"Everything?" said he--and he stroked the not resentful neck of
Alcibiades; "this good little beast isn't in the market, I'm afraid?"

"Why? Would you buy him?"

"I'd think twice before I said no. My mother is frightfully fond of
dogs."

Quite unreasonably Judy felt