"At night," said Gerald, "we shall have to sleep at inns or farmhouses, and buy food next morning to go on with."
"Yes, that's the way the children in the story-books do," replied Dina, with a comfortable sense of following good example.
"There's still one thing we've got to do before we go," said Gerald. "We must write a letter to dad. They always do, you know."
"Oh, yes, always," assented Geraldine out of her large experience; "and in the letter let's tell him why we're going, and where."
"We will," rejoined Gerald. "I'll do the writing—shall I?—because my hand's better than yours. Here goes then!"
"'Dear Dad—'"
"But he isn't dear!" protested Dina. "Don't let's begin by telling stories."
"All right. Then it shall be just 'Dad,'" and Gerald wrote as follows:—
"'Dad, youve hert our feelings dreffuly by punnishing us for nuthing we did rong for the saik of our nasty mussty old ansestars, so we're not goeing to remane to be bulied, but we're off to Mother who isn't ungust and unkinde. Dont come after us for we will never be taken alive.
"(Signed) THE TWINS."