Florence slipped out of bed and stood looking dolefully at the falling drops.
"What do you suppose the birds do, Dimple?" she asked, going up to her, and softly shaking her.
"Oh," said Dimple, now awake, and sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, "I suppose they get under the leaves just as we do under an umbrella, or they go under the eaves, and places like that. I have seen them lots of times. It is raining, isn't it, Florence?"
"I said so, long ago," answered Florence; "now we can't go out of doors to play, and it is so nice outdoors. I don't see the sense of its raining in summer."
"Why," returned Dimple, sitting down on the floor to put on her shoes and stockings, "that is the very time for it to rain, or everything would dry up."
"Well, I wish it didn't have to," said Florence, coming away from the window, and sitting on the floor too. "What color stockings do you like best, Dimple?"
"I don't know; black, I think. Don't you?"
"I believe I do. My! there is the breakfast bell, and we are only beginning to get dressed. You fasten my buttons, and I will fasten yours, Dimple, so we will get dressed in a hurry."
Their fingers flew, and they rushed down to breakfast two steps at a time.
"It was so dark this morning that we went to sleep again after you called us, mamma," explained Dimple.