It was amusing of you to scold me for not going to the races. But crowds--the bare idea of them confused me so. However, Bill insisted upon reading that part of your letter and carried me off, on your authority, if you please, to sit for hours in a funny little box and watch the people and the horses and smell the track and disgrace myself by rising suddenly and shouting as my horse came in!
I won twelve dollars and am very haughty about it!
I think if I had ever seen a horse-race while I was ill, could such a thing have happened, I would have died. Such sheer, wonderful poetry of motion! Bill laughed at me and promises me more thrills when the racing season is on in New York. He says the Cuban race horses are a "lot of junk"--but he doesn't realize what it meant to me. No one can realize what it means to me, to be unfettered, to walk, to feel well, to be hostess in my own (borrowed) home, _to be like other girls_! It is no longer a miracle, of course. Nothing is, for very long, except perhaps--life. And I look back on all my invalid years with amazement: it seems a dream, a fantasy, remote and impossible. It is as though I had always lived--as now,--really _lived_, Daddy dearest!
My letters are terribly long! And I write you much oftener than you me. We all send our love. Peter and I go further--we send kisses.
Stay safe. Stay well, and write to your happy
We have no calendar here, my small, enchanting daughter, and so there are no such things as dates, only nights and days and splendid undivided hours.
I was happy to have your letter. And you must not worry about me--I feel twenty years younger and, so John says, look it. You will not know your old Dad when you see him.
I miss you, my dear. This is our first separation. I could not stand another. I hope that you have persuaded Bill that my home must still be your home, when we are all together again. At first it seemed unwise, two young things starting out in life, saddled with the presence of a third person. For I am a third person now--it is right that I should be. But I am very selfish. I want to enjoy my girl, this new, wonderful manifestation of her. And there is room in the old house for us all: you may tinker with it as you please, add where you will, and I will keep from under your feet. I am certain that Bill will have all the practice he needs to keep him from getting rusty--even in Green Hill. And good old Mac is quite ready to abdicate in his favor. How splendidly it has all worked out! Never a day passes that I do not thank God for your health, for your happiness, and for my own reprieve.