“Sh-sh!” returned Gladys. “She’s behind the coal scuttle, writing letters to Bulka.”
Tubby heard this, but she made no sound, only turned very red and went on with her letter.
“Well, we needn’t bother about her,” said Virginia May. “If she doesn’t want to come she can stay behind.”
And they all set off, with a great clatter and shouting, as usual; all except the Easter Chicken and the Money-Pig, who complained of indigestion and wanted to sleep. No wonder, with all those letters inside him!
The house grew very still and lonely, but Tubby didn’t mind. She sat and wrote; her pencil went scratch-scratch busily on the paper without stopping. She was writing Bulka all the most lovely things she could think of. It is true that her letters were all rather alike, but that didn’t matter; one can’t always be saying something different. She was having a wonderful time. And meanwhile the Easter Chicken ran to and fro, fetching Tubby all the scraps of paper he could find, and as soon as each letter was finished he went over on tiptoe and it in the Money-Pig.
Ding-dong! chimed the clock, twelve times. A beam of moonlight came through the window. It moved slowly, nearer, till it lit up the dark corner behind the coal scuttle where Tubby sat writing. A tear stood on her nose, for at that moment she was wondering where Bulka was, and the thought that something might have happened to him, and that perhaps he would never read the letters she had
