the arm of her mother's chair,
"what are you thinking about so hard? You have a little puckery frown
between your eyes, whenever you look at Florence and me. What have we
been doing?"

"Nothing," replied Mrs. Dallas, smiling. "I was wondering if it would be
wise to leave you two alone here with Bubbles for a day. Mrs. Hardy
wants me to go to the city with her to-morrow, and I promised Sylvy some
time ago that she should have the day; she wants to go off on an
excursion, and has been making great preparations. I could not have the
heart to disappoint her, and your papa will not be at home for another
week, so I am very doubtful about leaving you."

"Oh! do go, mamma," cried Dimple, clapping her hands. "We can keep house
beautifully, can't we, Florence?--and it will be such fun. Do go,
there's a darling. We'll be just as grown-up as possible, and do
anything you tell us."

"And you will not be afraid?"

"Not in the least. We'll have Bubbles, you know, and she can run awfully
fast, if we get ill, and want the doctor," replied Dimple, cheerfully.

"I hope no such effort will be needed on Bubbles' part. You must not
turn the house upside down, nor empty all the trunks and chests upon the
floor of the attic."

"Now, mamma," exclaimed Dimple, reproachfully, "why do you remind us of
that?"

Mrs. Dallas laughed at the woe-begone tone.

"That you may remember not to do it again," she replied; then she added,
"Well, I'll think about it a little longer. I promised to let Mrs. Hardy
know this afternoon. Now run along and let me think."

"You will tell us as soon as you make up your mind," said Dimple, as she
left the room with Florence.

"Yes, yes; don't keep me any longer from my 'think.'"

"Don't you hope she will go?" asked Florence. "I think it would be lots
of fun to have the house all to ourselves for a whole day. What shall we
do, Dimple?"

"Oh, there will be lots to do," replied Dimple, importantly. "There will
be the beds to make, and the house to put in order, and dinner to get.
Oh, Florence! What shall we have for dinner? What should you like?"

"I don't know, exactly; baked custards are nice."

"Yes," assented Dimple, doubtfully, "but I'm afraid we couldn't manage
to make them just right; they seem sort of hard; and you don't like
huckleberry pudding."

"Then let's have apple 'cobbler;' we both like that."

"Yes, and it is easy, at least I think it is, just crust and apples.
Well, we'll have that. I