Standing on tiptoe she asked the ticket agent. "When was the last train
to Baltimore?"
"Next train leaves at 4:50," said the man, without looking up.
"Not the next train, but the last train. When did it go?"
"Last train!" the man glanced up. "Last train left at 2:15."
"Thank you." It was with a sense of relief that she heard him give the
time. Florence had not left the house so long ago as that. It was now
after four, and two hours had not elapsed since they were playing in the
garret. So she went slowly out, but suddenly remembered that Florence
was not at home. Where was she? Perhaps she was lost. She didn't know
her way about very well, Dimple reflected, and she could easily have
taken a wrong turn.
"I'll just have to look for her, that's all," thought Dimple; and the
little feet pattered along in the rain, getting wetter and wetter each
moment.
Up one street and down another went Dimple, but there was no sign of
Florence, and the child's repentance grew stronger as she traveled on.
Her imagination saw Florence in a dozen different plights, each one
worse than the last. Accidents of various kinds, disasters of every
possible nature, even the very improbable idea that she had been stolen
by gypsies, rose to the child's mind, till, terror stricken, she flew
along, scarcely knowing which way she went.
Pages:
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46