Dear Mr. President of the United States:

Please send the letter I put in the envelope to my father. He is
working for the Stars and Stripes somewhere, he said he could not tell
me where becose it was a secret. He is a soldier, but he is one of
those that do not wear any uniform. I am sure you will know where he is
becose you are the President of our Country. I would like to know, too,
very much where he is becose it is lonesome without him, for my father
is the only family I have. But my father said I must be a little
soldier. You know he just means me to do my duty and to like Overlook
and everybody and to do what they do, but it makes me feel better to
pretend that I am a soldier like he is and like all your soldiers.
Thank you if you send my letter to my father and much love.

Yours truly, Keineth Randolph.

P. S.--Aunt Josephine says postscripts are not good form, but I forgot
to say that my father's name is John Randolph, of Washington Square,
New York. This was the letter over which Keineth, curled in a chair at
the writing-desk, had labored for a long time, finishing it at last to
her satisfaction. Slipping it into an envelope with the letter she had
written to her father she sealed it hastily, anxious to have it
addressed and mailed before Peggy and Billy returned from the golf
club.

Over on the window seat Barbara sat sewing, watching Keineth with
amused eyes; for Keineth had been writing with the dictionary open at
her elbow and had stopped very often to consult it as to the spelling
of a word.