Judy began to cry.
“Yes, cry, my dear,” said the Aunt kindly; “it will do you a world of good.”
When the Aunt was asleep—she had closed her ears to the protests of Alcibiades with wadding left over from a handkerchief sachet—Judy crept down in her woolly white dressing-gown, and coaxed the kitchen fire back to life. Then she sat in front of it, on the speckless rag carpet, and nursed Alcibiades and scolded him, and explained that he really must be a good dog, and that we all have something to put up with in this life.
“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.