I ate my fish with the wrong fork, but the waiter very kindly gave me another so that nobody noticed.

And after luncheon we went to the theatre—­it was dazzling, marvellous, unbelievable—­I dream about it every night.

Isn’t Shakespeare wonderful?

Hamlet is so much better on the stage than when we analyze it in class;
I appreciated it before, but now, clear me!

I think, if you don’t mind, that I’d rather be an actress than a writer.  Wouldn’t you like me to leave college and go into a dramatic school?  And then I’ll send you a box for all my performances, and smile at you across the footlights.  Only wear a red rose in your buttonhole, please, so I’ll surely smile at the right man.  It would be an awfully embarrassing mistake if I picked out the wrong one.

We came back Saturday night and had our dinner in the train, at little tables with pink lamps and negro waiters.  I never heard of meals being served in trains before, and I inadvertently said so.

`Where on earth were you brought up?’ said Julia to me.

`In a village,’ said I meekly, to Julia.

`But didn’t you ever travel?’ said she to me.

`Not till I came to college, and then it was only a hundred and sixty miles and we didn’t eat,’ said I to her.

She’s getting quite interested in me, because I say such funny things.  I try hard not to, but they do pop out when I’m surprised—­ and I’m surprised most of the time.  It’s a dizzying experience, Daddy, to pass eighteen years in the John Grier Home, and then suddenly to be plunged into the world.

But I’m getting acclimated.  I don’t make such awful mistakes as I did; and I don’t feel uncomfortable any more with the other girls.  I used to squirm whenever people looked at me.  I felt as though they saw right through my sham new clothes to the checked ginghams underneath.  But I’m not letting the ginghams bother me any more.  Sufficient unto yesterday is the evil thereof.

I forgot to tell you about our flowers.  Master Jervie gave us each a big bunch of violets and lilies-of-the-valley.  Wasn’t that sweet of him?  I never used to care much for men—­judging by Trustees—­ but I’m changing my mind.

Eleven pages—­this is a letter!  Have courage.  I’m going to stop. 
                           Yours always,
                                           Judy

10th April
Dear Mr. Rich-Man,

Here’s your cheque for fifty dollars.  Thank you very much, but I do not feel that I can keep it.  My allowance is sufficient to afford all of the hats that I need.  I am sorry that I wrote all that silly stuff about the millinery shop; it’s just that I had never seen anything like it before.

However, I wasn’t begging!  And I would rather not accept any more
charity than I have to. 
                   Sincerely yours,
                                     Jerusha Abbott