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 back 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
cheque. 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 post 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,
I love you always,
Judy