“I think we ought to write another one all over again, and tell him right at the beginning it’s a secret,” said Eileen.
“Oh! do you think so?” asked Mollie, wearily. “I wonder ought we? I’m just about sick of it. It’s about the hardest thing I ever tried.”
“Oh, it’s sickening!” declared Doris.
“Ugh!” grunted Baby.
“I’ve scribbled about a hundred already, and we’re just as far off as when we started,” said Mollie. “I wish he’d ride up this very instant and save us all this trouble.” And she looked away and sighed. “Oh, well! I suppose we’ll only have to do it. We’ll have to stick at it till we do get something to suit.”
“Yes, we’ll have to have it ready for to-morrow’s mail,” said Eileen.
“Oh, yes, it has to be done! Let’s have another go.”
They had a great many “goes” before they managed one to satisfy them, but at last they all gathered round while Mollie read the last one out aloud, and they declared that would have to do.
Dear Uncle,—
No doubt you will be surprised to hear from us. We are your five little Bush Nieces. We live away up in the North-West of New South Wales, on a selection, in a wooden house on the bank of the Gillongi Creek, and our father is your brother Robert.
“Won’t that s’prise him?” chuckled Doris, clasping her fat hands.