P. S. This is one of those wicked anonymous letters you read about
in novels.
December 20th.
_Dear Daddy-Long-Legs_,
I’ve just a moment, because I must attend two classes, pack a trunk
and a suitcase, and catch the four-o’clock train--but I couldn’t go
without sending a word to let you know how much I appreciate my
Christmas box.
I love the furs and the necklace and the liberty scarf and the
gloves and handkerchiefs and books and purse--and most of all I love
you! But Daddy, you have no _business_ to spoil me this way. I’m
only human--and a girl at that. How can I keep my mind sternly fixed
on a studious career, when you deflect me with such worldly
frivolities?
I have strong suspicions now as to which one of the John Grier
Trustees used to give the Christmas tree and the Sunday ice-cream.
He was nameless, but by his works I know him! You deserve to be
happy for all the good things you do.
Good-by, and a very merry Christmas.
Yours always,