And these manifestations showed plainly that Cuckoo had not dismissed it yet. She tried to dismiss it, shutting her eyes up tightly, shaking her head at the black, venomous thing. But it stayed and grew larger and more dominant. Then she took her head from the pillow, faced it, and examined it. It was a clear-cut, definite thought now, perfectly finished, coldly complete. Jessie was embodied money, an embodied small sum of money. Long ago Cuckoo had said to Julian with pride: "She's a show-dog. I wouldn't part with her for nuts." Now she remembered those words, and knew, could not help knowing, that a show-dog was worth more than nuts. At that moment she wished Jessie were worthless. Then the sting would be drawn from her horrible thought. Meanwhile Jessie slept calmly on, warm and cosey. Cuckoo was cold and trembling. She knew that she was on the verge of starvation. The doctor had said that one day she could help Julian, only she. So she must not starve. Love alone would not let her do that. Between her and starvation lay Jessie, curved in sleep, unconscious that her small future was being debated with tears and with horror. Long ago the little dog had entered Cuckoo's heart to be cherished there. Many wretched London women own such a little dog, to whom they cling with a passion such as more fortunate women lavish upon their children. A great many subtleties combine to elevate companions with tails to the best thrones the poor, the wicked, and the deserted can give them. A dog has such a rich nature to give to the woman who is poor, so much innocence at hand for the woman who is wicked, such completeness of attachment ready for the woman who is lonely. It is so beautifully humble upon its throne, abased in its own eyes before the shrine of its mistress, on whom it depends entirely for all its happiness. A little king, perhaps, it has the pretty manners of a little servitor. And even when it presumes to be determined in the expressed desire for the dryness of a biscuit or the warmth of a lap, with how small a word or glance can it be laid upon its back, in the abject renunciation of every pretension, anxious only for the forgiveness that nobody with a touch of tenderness could withhold. Ah, there is much to be thankful for in a companion with a tail! Jessie had winning ways, the deep heart of a dog. A toy dog she was, no doubt, but hers was no toy nature. Cuckoo could not have shed such tears as those she now shed over any toy. For she began to cry weakly at the mere thought that had come to her, although it was not yet become a resolve. Life with Jessie had been very sordid, very sad. What would life be without her? What would such a morning as this be, for instance? Cuckoo's imagination set tempestuously to work, with physical aids--such as the following. She drew away her feet from the bottom of the bed, where they touched the little dog's back. Doing this she said