Florence had reached home long before. Indeed she had not gone very far before her anger cooled, although she was still very much hurt; but she concluded it would not be right to start off for her own home without a word to her aunt, who had been so kind to her. This thought added to her unhappiness, and she went to Dimple's room, throwing herself on the floor, crying bitterly.
The sound of her sobs brought Mrs. Dallas from the next room.
"Why, Florence," she said, seeing the little girl prone upon the floor. "What is the matter? Why have you taken off your frock?"
"Oh! auntie," sobbed Florence, "please let me go home; indeed, I can't stay."
"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.