present. For the rest, it was as roomy as the toy-cupboard and far more tidy. If Bulka were only here to play with her, Tubby thought, they could have a wonderful time; and thinking of Bulka she remembered the unfinished letter and the pencil which she had thrust hastily into her pocket when Murrum seized her.
Taking it out, she sat down with her back against the wall, licked the point of her pencil well, and began to write:
Dear Bulka:
I am in a funny place it is a house in a tree. Murrum brought me it is lited with green lites so no more at present. Hoping you are well your loving
P.S. I will make you a cake with ammons and Icing and Silver balls.
When she had finished writing Tubby walked round and round the room looking for a place to post her letter, but she could see no crack or cranny large enough, and the walls looked exactly the same all round. So at last she gave it up, and feeling somewhat dizzy from walking in a circle so long she cuddled down in a hollow in the floor and shut her eyes.
When she awoke it was daylight, and the sun was shining in through the hole in the top of the tree. Tubby could
