"Of course I will," he said heartily, "but I shall pay for him. I'll write a cheque: you can pay me when you get him back. Thank you--yes, I am sure that pin-cushion would delight my aunt." Judy, with burning cheeks, found her way back to her stall. "Oh, Alcibiades," she said, unfastening the blue ribbon, "I'm sure he's nice. Don't bite him, there's a dear!" A cheque signed "Richard Graeme" and a card with an address came into Judy's hands, and the chain of Alcibiades left them. "I know you'll be good to him," she said; "don't give him meat, only biscuit, and sulphur in his drinking water. But you know all that. You've got me out of a frightful hole, and I'll bless you as long as I live. Good-bye." She stooped to the Aberdeen, now surprised and pained. "Good-bye, my dear old boy!" And Alcibiades, stubborn resistance in every line of his figure, in every hair of his coat, was dragged away through the crowded bazaar. Judy went to bed very tired. The bazaar had been a success, and the success had been talked over and the money counted till late in the evening--nearly eleven, that is, which is late for Tabbies--yet she woke at four. Some one was calling her. It was--no, he was gone--her eyes pricked at the thought--yet--surely that could be the voice of no other than Alcibiades? She sat up in bed and listened. It was he! That was his dear voice whining at the side gate. Those were his darling paws scratching the sacred paint off it. Judy swept down the stairs like a silent whirlwind, turned key, drew bolts, and in a moment she and the cur were "sobbing in each other's arms." She carried him up to her room, washed his dear, muddy paws, and spread her golf cape that he might lie on the bed beside her. In chilliest, earliest dawn she rose and dressed. She found a wire that had supported her pictures at the bazaar, and she wrote a note and tied it to the collar of Alcibiades, where she noticed and untied a frayed end of rope. This was the note: "He has run home to me. Why did you take the chain off? He always bites through cord. Don't beat him for it; he'll soon forget me." The tears came into her eyes as she wrote it; it seemed to her so very pathetic. She did not quite believe that Alcibiades would soon forget her--but if he did----? The note did not lack pathos, either, in the eyes of Captain Graeme, when, two hours later, he found it under the chin of a mournfully howling Alcibiades, securely attached by picture wire to the railings of his mother's house. The Captain took a turn on the Heath, and thought. And his thoughts were these: "She's the prettiest girl I've seen since I came home. It's deuced dull here. Shouldn't wonder if she's dull too, poor little girl."