Yours with love,
Judy Abbott.
The Infirmary.
April 4th.
Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,
Yesterday evening just toward dark, when I was sitting up in bed looking out at the rain and feeling awfully bored with life in a great institution, the nurse appeared with a long white box addressed to me, and filled with the loveliest pink rosebuds. And much nicer still, it contained a card with a very polite message written in a funny little uphill back hand (but one which shows a great deal of character). Thank you, Daddy, a thousand times. Your flowers make the first real, true present I ever received in my life. If you want to know what a baby I am, I lay down and cried because I was so happy.
Now that I am sure you read my letters, I ’ll make them much more interesting, so they ’ll be worth keeping in a safe with red tape around them—only please take out that dreadful one and burn it up. I ’d hate to think that you ever read it over.
Thank you for making a very sick, cross, miserable Freshman cheerful. Probably you have lots of loving family and friends, and you don’t know what it feels like to be alone. But I do.
Good-by—I ’ll promise never to be horrid again, because now I know you ’re a real person; also I ’ll promise never to bother you with any more questions.
Do you still hate girls?