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