Dimple leaned her head back against the pew, and looked out at the white clouds drifting across the sky, so dreamily and softly; she heard the birds singing in the trees, and now and then came back to a consciousness of the minister's voice, and she caught a sentence here and there; but she could not fix her attention on the sermon at all; she was thinking of the dreaded to-morrow that would take her playmates away from her. The quiet and solemnity of the place only added to the sadness of her thoughts, and as the last hymn was being sung, the tears gathered in her eyes and dropped silently down on her book.
Finally she could stand it no longer, but slipped down on her knees, buried her face in the cushions, and fairly sobbed.
No one knew what was the matter, and Mrs. Dallas looked distressed, fearing she was ill. Mr. Dallas leaned down toward her, and whispered, "Are you ill, Dimple?"
But she shook her head, and when the hymn was ended, he drew her close to him, and put his arm around her, while she kept her face hidden on his shoulder.
No one could tell what ailed her, as every question only brought a fresh burst of tears, and she walked home in silence.
It was not until they were in the house, that she could tell what affected her.
Then her mother took her on her lap, and she had her cry out there, while Florence and Rock, looking much concerned, stood by.
"Tell me, daughter, what ails you," her mother said, pushing back the curls from the little tear-stained face.
"It was so solemn—and—I was thinking about everybody's going away to-morrow," she said, between her sobs. "Then they sang—'Where friend holds fellowship with friend. Though sundered far'—and all that—and I couldn't stand it any longer," and the tears still rained down her face.
At this Florence's eyes filled up, and she put her arms around Dimple, and they cried together, while it took Mrs. Dallas, Rock, and Mr. Dallas, all three, to comfort them.