April 11th.
_Dearest Daddy_,
Will you please forgive me for the letter I wrote you yesterday?
After I posted it I was sorry, and tried to get it back, but that
beastly mail clerk wouldn’t give it to me.
It’s the middle of the night now; I’ve been awake for hours
thinking what a Worm I am--what a Thousand-legged Worm--and that’s
the worst I can say! I’ve closed the door very softly into the
study so as not to wake Julia and Sallie, and am sitting up in bed
writing to you on paper torn out of my history note-book.
I just wanted to tell you that I am sorry I was so impolite about
your check. I know you meant it kindly, and I think you’re an old
dear to take so much trouble for such a silly thing as a hat.
I ought to have returned it very much more graciously.
But in any case, I had to return it. It’s different with me than
with other girls. They can take things naturally from people. They
have fathers and brothers and aunts and uncles; but I can’t be on
any such relations with any one. I like to pretend that you belong
to me, just to play with the idea, but of course I know you don’t.
I’m alone, really--with my back to the wall fighting the world--and
I get sort of gaspy when I think about it. I put it out of my mind,
and keep on pretending; but don’t you see, Daddy? I can’t accept any
more money than I have to, because some day I shall be wanting to
pay it back, and even as great an author as I intend to be, won’t be
able to face a _perfectly tremendous_ debt.
I’d love pretty hats and things, but I mustn’t mortgage the future
to pay for them.
You’ll forgive me, won’t you, for being so rude? I have an awful
habit of writing impulsively when I first think things, and then
posting the letter beyond recall. But if I sometimes seem
thoughtless and ungrateful, I never mean it. In my heart I thank you
always for the life and freedom and independence that you have given
me. My childhood was just a long, sullen stretch of revolt, and now
I am so happy every moment of the day that I can’t believe it’s
true. I feel like a made-up heroine in a story-book.
It’s a quarter past two. I’m going to tiptoe out to the mail chute
and get this off now. You’ll receive it in the next mail after the
other; so you won’t have a very long time to think bad of me.
Good night, Daddy,