the night he left, which is why I cried so under the sheet, and then
when the tears were out and I felt lighter I got up and wrote him a
long letter and told him I loved him so it hurt, and that he was the
best and dearest father on all this big, big earth, and if he would let
me come and keep house for him I would fly back. But he wouldn't let
me come. He wrote me a letter, though, that I shall keep with my
treasures, and I wish what he said was so. It isn't so. He just
thinks it, but it does your heart good to know somebody cares an awful
lot about you and no matter what you do is going to stand by. What he
wrote me was this:

_Dear little Nut-brown Maid all mine, of course you would come, but you
mustn't. It is too hot and you need what you are getting, and nothing
could help me here so much as to know of that wonderful color of yours
and that you are so well and strong again. That you are getting health
and happy memories for the winter of work and study ahead is the best
tonic I can take, and every morning when I go to my desk I get out that
little picture of you and, nobody being by, I kiss it and send you my
love, and it is a breath of life-giving air to know you are mine.
Since the first time I saw you--you were exactly one hour old and
laughing even then--you have been the joy and delight of my heart, and
I can't afford to run any risk with summer heat and the joy of my
heart. I didn't deserve you, for I wanted a son so badly, and was
fearfully disappointed that you were not a boy. You seemed to
understand and did not get mad about it, and I've often wanted you to
know that no son could mean to me now what my little harum-scarum
daughter means. There has never been a day since you first looked into
my eyes that I haven't thanked God for you, and the thing I am most
afraid of in life is that you may get sick or not be strong, and that
is why I am so glad for you to be in such a charming old place as
Twickenham Town. You were wise, little daughter of mine, to choose so
quaint and queer and dear a place in which to spend your summer, for
there real things still count, and there is more time for the fine
courtesies of life, and the hurry and rush of it, the push and scramble
for place and power, is out of key with its quiet serenity and the
poise that comes from a sense of values that by many of us is to-day
forgotten. I am coming back as soon as I can, for I, too, want the
refreshment and novelty o