"Oh, dear, I hope there hasn't been any train along that she
could take." She put on her hat, seized an umbrella from the rack, and
sallied forth. It was still raining hard, and as she splashed along, the
little girl was very miserable.

It was quite a walk to the railway station, and Dimple hurried her
steps, fearing she might be too late to intercept her cousin. She
entered the waiting-room of the station, and looked anxiously around. No
Florence was there. Her heart sank and she turned to go. Florence had
really meant what she said. And her aunt and cousins in Baltimore, what
would they think of her? The tears began to roll down Dimple's cheeks
as she looked up and down the long track. She did not know what to do
next. It would be so dreadful to go home and tell her mother that she
had driven her cousin away by her rudeness. She was about to turn toward
home, when she bethought herself of making some inquiry about the
trains; and she entered the waiting-room again.

Standing on tiptoe she asked the ticket agent. "When was the last train
to Baltimore?"

"Next train leaves at 4:50," said the man, without looking up.

"Not the next train, but the last train. When did it go?"

"Last train!" the man glanced up. "Last train left at 2:15."

"Thank you." It was with a sense of relief that she heard him give the
time. Florence had not left the house so long ago as that. It was now
after four, and two hours had not elapsed since they were playing in the
garret. So she went slowly out, but suddenly remembered that Florence
was not at home. Where was she? Perhaps she was lost. She didn't know
her way about very well, Dimple reflected, and she could easily have
taken a wrong turn.

"I'll just have to look for her, that's all," thought Dimple; and the
little feet pattered along in the rain, getting wetter and wetter each
moment.

Up one street and down another went Dimple, but there was no sign of
Florence, and the child's repentance grew stronger as she traveled on.
Her imagination saw Florence in a dozen different plights, each one
worse than the last. Accidents of various kinds, disasters of every
possible nature, even the very improbable idea that she had been stolen
by gypsies, rose to the child's mind, till, terror stricken, she flew
along, scarcely knowing which way she went.

She was conscious of steadily pursuing footsteps behind her, but she did
not turn to look until the feet came nearer and nearer and a soft