Then you laughed and held out your hand and said, 'Dear little Judy,
couldn'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
wouldn'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, aren'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 today 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. Doesn't it seem queer for me to belong to
someone at last? It seems very, very sweet.
And I shall never let you be sorry for a single instant.
Yours, for ever and ever,
Judy
PS. This is the first love-letter I ever wrote. Isn't it funny that I
know how?