"
"Are you homesick?" asked her aunt, as she took her up on her lap, and
pushed back the damp hair from her face. "Poor little girl!"
A fresh burst of tears was the only answer.
"Where is Dimple?" asked Mrs. Dallas.
But Florence only cried the harder, and her aunt was forced to put her
down with an uncomfortable sense of there being something wrong. She
went directly up to the attic, but it was silent. Dimple was not there,
neither was Bubbles, and no amount of search revealed them. She went
back to Florence, who dried her tears and unburdened her heart, and then
in her turn became alarmed about Dimple, since no amount of hunting
disclosed her whereabouts.
Mrs. Dallas was, herself, becoming much worried, when the door slowly
opened and a disheveled little figure stood before them, with soaking
garments and sodden shoes.
For a moment Dimple stood, then ran forward and buried her head in her
mother's lap.
"Mamma," she sobbed, "it was all on account of the weather. I coaxed
Florence out to the hogshead, and then we got wet, and didn't know how
to get out of it, and we went up into the attic, and I felt naughty all
the time, and we got mad, and oh dear! I wish the sun would shine."
"I am afraid from all I hear, that you have been the one to set all this
mischief astir," said her mother.
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