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 wouldn'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 cheque for one thousand dollars.

it seems funny, doesn't it, for me to be sending a cheque 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 towards 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 hasn'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 humour 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 isn'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 haven't, i can't explain.

anyway, that's the way i feel--and i've refused to marry him.

i didn't tell him why; i was just dumb and miserable. i couldn'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 wouldn't think of marrying jimmie; he isn'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 didn't care for him, but because i cared

for him so much. i was afraid he would regret it in the future--

and i couldn't stand that! it didn'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 didn'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 wouldn'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 isn'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 haven'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