"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 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.