I miss you dreadfully. This room is cold and still. My only friend, a small mouse, is nibbling a few crumbs I put out for him. Mrs. Sheepshanks is downstairs, moping sullenly. She fought with the maid again last night. This time, the poor girl fought back, and Mrs. Sheepshanks is currently sporting a black eye. The maid was immediately fired, of course, which leaves me no one but you to talk to. You and Fredrick; the mouse. He is a handsome fellow, as mice go, and I wondered that he wasn’t married until the other day I caught him sneaking a crumb to a pretty little field mouse that lives in the hedge that borders this wretched place. So far, his clandestine meetings have gone unnoticed by George: Mrs. Sheepshanks’ cat. I’m going to try and keep it that way, even if it means playing up to the fat grouch.
Mrs. Sheepshanks is screaming at the boys next door, now. I can’t repeat what she’s saying, but it’s funny. Apparently, she thinks they were the ones who left the scrub brush on the cellar stairs for her to trip on. She either forgot, or doesn’t care, that she left it there herself.
Oh, dear! It’s time to go down for supper, and I must conclude. I won’t pain you by saying how much I miss you, but I do so long for the day when you come for me.