n dinner for the children, a long sleep for the dollies,
and next, the golden afternoon to be lived through and enjoyed.

"Annie!" cried Dorrie, coming down from the nursery, and peering in at
the dining-room, where Annie was now reading with a will, deep in the
wildest tragedy of the story, where a dog, a gypsy, and a certain Sophia
were playing their parts in real story-book fashion. "Annie!" so
silvery-tongued Dorrie spoke her name again.

"Well, what?" was the unladylike answer from Annie.

"I _fink_ the dollies want to go out in their mail-cart."

"Well, take them."

"But I want you to come."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't; run away."

"Must I go alone?" asked Dorrie sadly.

"Yes, of course you must." And she went.

Shock-headed Mab, Alice, and Daisy in the jaunting mail-cart, Dorrie
drawing it, playing pony and careful mamma all in one; out at the gate,
along the road to the copse; a river came running and babbling along by
the road, as one neared the copse. Inside the copse the doves were
cooing, squirrels leaping, the cuckoo crying, as the mite went along.
What would send her back? Not her baby conscience, for Annie had told
her to go all by herself--big, big Annie, ever so big.

At home, the afternoon wore away, tea-time came; nurse ran down from the
nursery to the dining-room to fetch her two little charges. Only Annie
was there, who started up from her book, like a girl awaking from sleep.

"Why, Miss Annie, I thought Dorrie was here!" cried nurse, in surprise.

"No, she--she"--Annie's conscience gave her such a prick.

"She what?" inquired nurse sharply.

"She took the dolls out in the mail-cart, and"--how Annie bowed her head
as conscience whispered of that promise to her mamma broken; and her
poor troubled heart also whispered, "What if something sad was going to
happen?"

Well, they sought the child here, there, and everywhere, little dreaming
what had happened, what was happening still. At last Ralph started off,
by the way of the copse, to look for her. Annie hurried in another
direction, and nurse in yet another. Rover went with Ralph--good Rover,
who could fetch, carry, and find so much. Oh, dear! what a seeking and
searching love makes, when even one wee maiden is lost! Ay, lost--not a
trace of her could Ralph and Rover find, till they came to the babbling
river, and there, on the bank, lay a posy of lilies-of-the-valley, and a
knot of ribbon from Dorrie's shoulder; th