I ’ve been writing this letter for two weeks, and I think it ’s about long enough. Never say, Daddy, that I don’t give details. I wish you were here, too; we ’d all have such a jolly time together. I like my different friends to know each other. I wanted to ask Mr. Pendleton if he knew you in New York—I should think he might; you must move in about the same exalted social circles, and you are both interested in reforms and things—but I could n’t, for I don’t know your real name.
It ’s the silliest thing I ever heard of, not to know your name. Mrs. Lippett warned me that you were eccentric. I should think so!
Affectionately,
Judy.
P. S. On reading this over, I find that it is n’t all Stevenson. There are one or two glancing references to Master Jervie.
September 10th.
Dear Daddy,
He has gone, and we are missing him! When you get accustomed to people or places or ways of living, and then have them suddenly snatched away, it does leave an awfully empty, gnawing sort of sensation. I ’m finding Mrs. Semple’s conversation pretty unseasoned food.
College opens in two weeks and I shall be glad to begin work again. I have worked quite a lot this summer though—six short stories and seven poems. Those I sent to the magazines all came back with the most courteous promptitude. But I don’t mind. It ’s good practice. Master Jervie read them—he brought in the mail, so I could n’t help his knowing—and he said they were dreadful. They showed that I did n’t have the slightest idea of what I was talking about. (Master Jervie does n’t let politeness interfere with truth.) But the last one I did—just a little sketch laid in college—he said was n’t bad; and he had it typewritten, and I sent it to a magazine. They ’ve had it two weeks; maybe they ’re thinking it over.
You should see the sky! There ’s the queerest orange-colored light over everything. We ’re going to have a storm.