“What a dreadful nice breakfast!” remarked Judith, rubbing her hands, and accidentally hitting little Jacob, who forthwith spilled some molasses on the clean table-cloth, and had his ears boxed in consequence.  It was very evident that this meal was a much better one than usual—­a sort of festival in honor of Dotty Dimple:  Dutch cheese and pickles, mince-pie and gingerbread, pepper-boxes and green and yellow dishes, were mixed up together as if they had been stirred about with a spoon.

Dotty had not intended to eat a mouthful; but after her light supper of the night before, she was really hungry, and, in spite of her best resolves, the fish-hash and corncake gradually disappeared from her plate.

After breakfast she felt more resigned, and armed herself to meet her fate.  Mrs. Rosenberg graciously allowed Mandoline to lay aside her tedious knitting, and give her undivided attention to her guest.  Dotty had no heart for play.

“Seems as if I should choke in this house,” said she; “let’s go out and breathe.”

The air inside the house was rather stifling from a mixture of odors, and soon the grocery began to fill with loud-talking men and boys; but not the least of Dotty’s troubles was the black and tan dog, who seemed to have just such a temper as Mrs. Rosenberg, and would certainly have scolded if he had had the gift of speech.

The two little girls went out to walk; but it was not a pleasant street where the grocery stood, and Dotty hurried on to a better part of the town.  They fluttered about for two or three hours, as aimless as a couple of white butterflies.  Just as they were turning to go back to the dismal little grocery, which Dotty thought was more like a lock-up than ever, they met Mr. and Mrs. Parlin riding out in a carriage.

[Illustration:  DOTTY AND THE BLACK-AND-TAN DOG.]

Dotty felt a sudden tumult of joy and shame, but the joy was uppermost.  She rushed headlong across the street, swinging her arms and startling the horse, who supposed she was some new and improved kind of windmill, dressed up in a little girl’s clothes.

“O, my darling mamma, my darling mamma!”

To her surprise, the horse did not stop.  He only pricked up his ears, and looked with displeasure at the windmill, but kept along as before.

“Mamma, mamma, I say!”

Her mother never even looked at her, but turned her gaze to the blackened trees, the heaps of ruin along the pavement.

“O; papa!  O, stop, papa!  It’s me!  It’s Dotty!”

Mr. Parlin bent on his runaway daughter a glance of indifference, and called out, in passing,—­

“What strange little girl is this, who seems to know us so well?  It looks like my daughter Alice.  If it is, she needn’t come to my house to-day; she may go and finish her visit at Mrs. Rosenberg’s.”

Then the horse trotted on,—­indeed, he had never paused a moment,—­and carried both those dear, dear people out of sight.