July 24th.

Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,

Is n’t it fun to work—or don’t you ever do it? It ’s especially fun when your kind of work is the thing you ’d rather do more than anything else in the world. I ’ve been writing as fast as my pen would go every day this summer, and my only quarrel with life is that the days are n’t long enough to write all the beautiful and valuable and entertaining thoughts I ’m thinking.

I ’ve finished the second draft of my book and am going to begin the third to-morrow morning at half-past seven. It ’s the sweetest book you ever saw—it is, truly. I think of nothing else. I can barely wait in the morning to dress and eat before beginning; then I write and write and write till suddenly I ’m so tired that I ’m limp all over. Then I go out with Colin (the new sheep dog) and romp through the fields and get a fresh supply of ideas for the next day. It ’s the most beautiful book you ever saw—Oh, pardon—I said that before.

You don’t think me conceited, do you, Daddy dear?

I ’m not, really, only just now I ’m in the enthusiastic stage. Maybe later on I ’ll get cold and critical and sniffy. No, I ’m sure I won’t! This time I ’ve written a real book. Just wait till you see it.

I ’ll try for a minute to talk about something else. I never told you, did I, that Amasai and Carry got married last May? They are still working here, but so far as I can see it has spoiled them both. She used just to laugh when he tramped in mud or dropped ashes on the floor, but now—you should hear her scold! And she does n’t curl her hair any longer. Amasai, who used to be so obliging about beating rugs and carrying wood, grumbles if you suggest such a thing. Also his neckties are quite dingy—black and brown, where they used to be scarlet and purple. I ’ve determined never to marry. It ’s a deteriorating process, evidently.

There is n’t much of any farm news. The animals are all in the best of health. The pigs are unusually fat, the cows seem contented and the hens are laying well. Are you interested in poultry? If so, let me recommend that invaluable little work, “200 Eggs per Hen per Year.” I am thinking of starting an incubator next spring and raising broilers. You see I ’m settled at Lock Willow permanently. I have decided to stay until I ’ve written 114 novels like Anthony Trollope’s mother. Then I shall have completed my life work and can retire and travel.

Mr. James McBride spent last Sunday with us. Fried chicken and ice-cream for dinner, both of which he appeared to appreciate. I was awfully glad to see him; he brought a momentary reminder that the world at large exists. Poor Jimmie is having a hard time peddling his bonds. The Farmers’ National at the Corners would n’t have anything to do with them in spite of the fact that they pay six per cent. interest and sometimes seven. I think he ’ll end by going home to Worcester and taking a job in his father’s factory. He ’s too open and confiding and kind-hearted ever to make a successful financier. But to be the manager of a flourishing overall factory is a very desirable position, don’t you think? Just now he turns up his nose at overalls, but he ’ll come to them.

I hope you appreciate the fact that this is a long letter from a person with writer’s cramp. But I still love you, Daddy dear, and I ’m very happy. With beautiful scenery all about, and lots to eat and a comfortable four-post bed and a ream of blank paper and a pint of ink—what more does one want in the world?

Yours, as always,

Judy.

P. S. The postman arrives with some more news. We are to expect Master Jervie on Friday next to spend a week. That ’s a very pleasant prospect—only I am afraid my poor book will suffer. Master Jervie is very demanding.

August 27th.

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Where are you, I wonder?

I never know what part of the world you are in, but I hope you ’re not in New York during this awful weather. I hope you ’re on a mountain peak (but not in Switzerland; somewhere nearer) looking at the snow and thinking about me. Please be thinking about me. I ’m quite lonely and I want to be thought about. Oh, Daddy, I wish I knew you! Then when we were unhappy we could cheer each other up.

I don’t think I can stand much more of Lock Willow. I ’m thinking of moving. Sallie is going to do settlement work in Boston next winter. Don’t you think it would be nice for me to go with her, then we could have a studio together? I could write while she settled and we could be together in the evenings. Evenings are very long when there ’s no one but the Semples and Carrie and Amasai to talk to. I know ahead of time that you won’t like my studio idea. I can read your secretary’s letter now:

“Miss Jerusha Abbott.

“Dear Madam,

“Mr. Smith prefers that you remain at Lock Willow.

“Yours truly,

“Elmer H. Griggs”.

I hate your secretary. I am certain that a man named Elmer H. Griggs must be horrid. But truly, Daddy, I think I shall have to go to Boston. I can’t stay here. If something does n’t happen soon, I shall throw myself into the silo pit out of sheer desperation.

Mercy! but it ’s hot. All the grass is burnt up and the brooks are dry and the roads are dusty. It has n’t rained for weeks and weeks.

This letter sounds as though I had hydrophobia, but I have n’t. I just want some family.

Good-by, my dearest Daddy.

I wish I knew you.

Judy.

Lock Willow,

September 19th.

Dear Daddy,

Something has happened and I need advice. I need it from you, and from nobody else in the world. Would n’t it be possible for me to see you? It ’s so much easier to talk than to write; and I ’m afraid your secretary might open the letter.

Judy.

P. S. I ’m very unhappy.

Lock Willow,

October 3d.

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Your note written in your own hand—and a pretty wobbly hand!—came this morning. I am so sorry that you have been ill; I would n’t have bothered you with my affairs if I had known. Yes, I will tell you the trouble, but it ’s sort of complicated to write, and very private. Please don’t keep this letter, but burn it.

Before I begin—here ’s a check for one thousand dollars. It seems funny, does n’t it, for me to be sending a check to you? Where do you think I got it?

I ’ve sold my story, Daddy. It ’s going to be published serially in seven parts, and then in a book! You might think I ’d be wild with joy, but I ’m not. I ’m entirely apathetic. Of course I ’m glad to begin paying you—I owe you over two thousand more. It ’s coming in instalments. Now don’t be horrid, please, about taking it, because it makes me happy to return it. I owe you a great deal more than the mere money, and the rest I will continue to pay all my life in gratitude and affection.

And now, Daddy, about the other thing; please give me your most worldly advice, whether you think I ’ll like it or not.

You know that I ’ve always had a very special feeling toward you; you sort of represented my whole family; but you won’t mind, will you, if I tell you that I have a very much more special feeling for another man? You can probably guess without much trouble who he is. I suspect that my letters have been very full of Master Jervie for a very long time.

I wish I could make you understand what he is like and how entirely companionable we are. We think the same about everything—I am afraid I have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his! But he is almost always right; he ought to be, you know, for he has fourteen years’ start of me. In other ways, though, he ’s just an overgrown boy, and he does need looking after—he has n’t any sense about wearing rubbers when it rains. He and I always think the same things are funny, and that is such a lot; it ’s dreadful when two people’s senses of humor are antagonistic. I don’t believe there ’s any bridging that gulf!

And he is—Oh, well! He is just himself, and I miss him, and miss him, and miss him. The whole world seems empty and aching. I hate the moonlight because it ’s beautiful and he is n’t here to see it with me. But maybe you ’ve loved somebody, too, and you know? If you have, I don’t need to explain; if you have n’t, I can’t explain.

Anyway, that ’s the way I feel—and I ’ve refused to marry him.

I did n’t tell him why; I was just dumb and miserable. I could n’t think of anything to say. And now he has gone away imagining that I want to marry Jimmie McBride—I don’t in the least, I would n’t think of marrying Jimmie; he is n’t grown up enough. But Master Jervie and I got into a dreadful muddle of misunderstanding, and we both hurt each other’s feelings. The reason I sent him away was not because I did n’t care for him, but because I cared for him so much. I was afraid he would regret it in the future—and I could n’t stand that! It did n’t seem right for a person of my lack of antecedents to marry into any such family as his. I never told him about the orphan asylum, and I hated to explain that I did n’t know who I was. I may be dreadful, you know. And his family are proud—and I ’m proud, too!

Also, I felt sort of bound to you. After having been educated to be a writer, I must at least try to be one; it would scarcely be fair to accept your education and then go off and not use it. But now that I am going to be able to pay back the money, I feel that I have partially discharged that debt—besides, I suppose I could keep on being a writer even if I did marry. The two professions are not necessarily exclusive.

I ’ve been thinking very hard about it. Of course he is a Socialist, and he has unconventional ideas; maybe he would n’t mind marrying into the proletariat so much as some men might. Perhaps when two people are exactly in accord, and always happy when together and lonely when apart, they ought not to let anything in the world stand between them. Of course I want to believe that! But I ’d like to get your unemotional opinion. You probably belong to a Family also, and will look at it from a worldly point of view and not just a sympathetic, human point of view—so you see how brave I am to lay it before you.

Suppose I go to him and explain that the trouble is n’t Jimmie, but is the John Grier Home—would that be a dreadful thing for me to do? It would take a great deal of courage. I ’d almost rather be miserable for the rest of my life.

This happened nearly two months ago; I have n’t heard a word from him since he was here. I was just getting sort of acclimated to the feeling of a broken heart, when a letter came from Julia that stirred me all up again. She said—very casually—that “Uncle Jervis” had been caught out all night in a storm when he was hunting in Canada, and had been ill ever since with pneumonia. And I never knew it. I was feeling hurt because he had just disappeared into blankness without a word. I think he ’s pretty unhappy, and I know I am!

What seems to you the right thing for me to do?

Judy.

October 6th.

Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,

Yes, certainly I ’ll come—at half-past four next Wednesday afternoon. Of course I can find the way. I ’ve been in New York three times and am not quite a baby. I can’t believe that I am really going to see you—I ’ve been just thinking you so long that it hardly seems as though you are a tangible flesh-and-blood person.

You are awfully good, Daddy, to bother yourself with me, when you ’re not strong. Take care and don’t catch cold. These fall rains are very damp.

Affectionately,

Judy.

P. S. I ’ve just had an awful thought. Have you a butler? I ’m afraid of butlers, and if one opens the door I shall faint upon the step. What can I say to him? You did n’t tell me your name. Shall I ask for Mr. Smith?

 
 

Thursday Morning.

My very dearest Master-Jervie-Daddy-Long-Legs-Pendleton-Smith,

Did you sleep last night? I did n’t. Not a single wink. I was too amazed and excited and bewildered and happy. I don’t believe I ever shall sleep again—or eat either. But I hope you slept; you must, you know, because then you will get well faster and can come to me.

Dear Man, I can’t bear to think how ill you ’ve been—and all the time I never knew it. When the doctor came down yesterday to put me in the cab, he told me that for three days they gave you up. Oh, dearest, if that had happened, the light would have gone out of the world for me. I suppose that some day—in the far future—one of us must leave the other; but at least we shall have had our happiness and there will be memories to live with.

I meant to cheer you up—and instead I have to cheer myself. For in spite of being happier than I ever dreamed I could be, I ’m also soberer. The fear that something may happen to you rests like a shadow on my heart. Always before I could be frivolous and care-free and unconcerned, because I had nothing precious to lose. But now—I shall have a Great Big Worry all the rest of my life. Whenever you are away from me I shall be thinking of all the automobiles that can run over you, or the sign-boards that can fall on your head or the dreadful, squirmy germs that you may be swallowing. My peace of mind is gone forever—but anyway, I never cared much for just plain peace.

Judy embraces Jervie

THE IDENTITY OF DADDY-LONG-LEGS IS ESTABLISHED.

Please get well—fast—fast—fast. I want to have you close by where I can touch you and make sure you are tangible. Such a little half hour we had together! I ’m afraid maybe I dreamed it. If I were only a member of your family (a very distant fourth cousin) then I could come and visit you every day, and read aloud and plump up your pillow and smooth out those two little wrinkles in your forehead and make the corners of your mouth turn up in a nice cheerful smile. But you are cheerful again, are n’t you? You were yesterday before I left. The doctor said I must be a good nurse, that you looked ten years younger. I hope that being in love does n’t make every one ten years younger. Will you still care for me, darling, if I turn out to be only eleven?

Yesterday was the most wonderful day that could ever happen. If I live to be ninety-nine I shall never forget the tiniest detail. The girl that left Lock Willow at dawn was a very different person from the one who came back at night. Mrs. Semple called me at half-past four. I started wide awake in the darkness and the first thought that popped into my head was, “I am going to see Daddy-Long-Legs!” I ate breakfast in the kitchen by candle-light, and then drove the five miles to the station through the most glorious October coloring. The sun came up on the way, and the swamp maples and dogwood glowed crimson and orange and the stone walls and cornfields sparkled with hoar frost; the air was keen and clear and full of promise. I knew something was going to happen. All the way in the train the rails kept singing, “You ’re going to see Daddy-Long-Legs.” It made me feel secure. I had such faith in Daddy’s ability to set things right. And I knew that somewhere another man—dearer than Daddy—was wanting to see me, and somehow I had a feeling that before the journey ended I should meet him, too. And you see!

When I came to the house on Madison Avenue it looked so big and brown and forbidding that I did n’t dare go in, so I walked around the block to get up my courage. But I need n’t have been a bit afraid; your butler is such a nice, fatherly old man that he made me feel at home at once. “Is this Miss Abbott?” he said to me, and I said, “Yes,” so I did n’t have to ask for Mr. Smith after all. He told me to wait in the drawing-room. It was a very somber, magnificent, man’s sort of room. I sat down on the edge of a big upholstered chair and kept saying to myself:

“I ’m going to see Daddy-Long-Legs! I ’m going to see Daddy-Long-Legs!”

Then presently the man came back and asked me please to step up to the library. I was so excited that really and truly my feet would hardly take me up. Outside the door he turned and whispered, “He ’s been very ill, Miss. This is the first day he ’s been allowed to sit up. You ’ll not stay long enough to excite him?” I knew from the way he said it that he loved you—and I think he ’s an old dear!

Then he knocked and said, “Miss Abbott,” and I went in and the door closed behind me.

It was so dim coming in from the brightly lighted hall that for a moment I could scarcely make out anything; then I saw a big easy chair before the fire and a shining tea table with a smaller chair beside it. And I realized that a man was sitting in the big chair propped up by pillows with a rug over his knees. Before I could stop him he rose—sort of shakily—and steadied himself by the back of the chair and just looked at me without a word. And then—and then—I saw it was you! But even with that I did n’t understand. I thought Daddy had had you come there to meet me for a surprise.

Then you laughed and held out your hand and said, “Dear little Judy, could n’t you guess that I was Daddy-Long-Legs?”

In an instant it flashed over me. Oh, but I have been stupid! A hundred little things might have told me, if I had had any wits. I would n’t make a very good detective, would I, Daddy?—Jervie? What must I call you? Just plain Jervie sounds disrespectful, and I can’t be disrespectful to you!

It was a very sweet half hour before your doctor came and sent me away. I was so dazed when I got to the station that I almost took a train for St. Louis. And you were pretty dazed, too. You forgot to give me any tea. But we ’re both very, very happy, are n’t we? I drove back to Lock Willow in the dark—but oh, how the stars were shining! And this morning I ’ve been out with Colin visiting all the places that you and I went to together, and remembering what you said and how you looked. The woods to-day are burnished bronze and the air is full of frost. It ’s climbing weather. I wish you were here to climb the hills with me. I am missing you dreadfully, Jervie dear, but it ’s a happy kind of missing; we ’ll be together soon. We belong to each other now really and truly, no make-believe. Does n’t it seem queer for me to belong to some one at last? It seems very, very sweet.

And I shall never let you be sorry for a single instant.

Yours, forever and ever,

Judy.

P. S. This is the first love letter I ever wrote. Is n’t it funny that I know how?

THE END