that she did not want to sell Alcibiades as
a present to any one's mother.

"The sketches," she said.

"The sketches," said he; "why, there's Maidstone Church and Farley and
Teston Lock and Allington. How much are they?"

She told him.

"I must have some. May I have a dozen? They're disgracefully cheap, and
I feel like an American pork man buying works of art by the dozen--for
they _are_ jolly good--and it brings back old times. I was quartered
there once."

"I knew it," she said to herself. Alcibiades stood up with his paws on
her arm. "Be quiet," she said to him; "you mustn't talk now. I'm busy."

Alcibiades gave her a reproachful look, and lay down.

The stranger smiled; a very jolly smile, Judy thought.

"Ripping little beast, isn't he?" said the stranger.

"I suppose you're invalided home?" she said. She couldn't help it. A man
in the Service. One who had been quartered at Maidstone, her own dear
Maidstone. He was no longer a stranger.

"Yes," he said; "beastly bore. But I shall be all right in two or three
months; I hope the fighting won't be all over by then."

"Have you sold this gentleman anything?" said the Aunt firmly, "because
Mrs Biddle wants to look at some d'oyleys."

"I'm just selling something," answered Judy. Then she turned to him and
spoke softly. "I say, do you really like dogs?" said she.

"Of course I do." The young man opened surprised grey eyes at her, as
who should say: "Now, do I look like a man who doesn't like dogs?"

"Well, then," she said, "Alcibiades _is_ for sale."

"Is that his name? Why?"

"Oh, surely you know: wasn't it Alcibiades who gave up being dictator or
something rather than have his dog's ears cut off?"

"I seem to remember something of the sort," he said.

"Well," said she, "his price is twenty guineas, but----"

He whistled very softly.

"Yes--I know," she said, "but I'll--yes, Aunt, in one moment!" She went
on in an agonised undertone: "His price is twenty guineas. Say you'll
have him. Say it _loud_. You won't really have to pay anything for
him--No, I'm not mad."

"I'll give you twenty guineas for the dog," said the man, standing
straight and soldierly against the tumbled mass of mats and pin-cushions
and chair-backs.

The Aunt drew a long breath and turned to minister to Mrs Biddle's deep
need of d'oyleys.

"Come and have tea," said the stranger; "you're tired out."

"No--I can't. Of course I can't--but I'll take you over to Mrs Piddock's
s