Mrs. Lippett is dead for ever, so far as I am concerned, and the Semples aren't expected to overlook my moral welfare, are they?
No, I am sure not.
I am entirely grown up.
Hooray!
I leave you now to pack a trunk, and three boxes of teakettles and dishes and sofa cushions and books.
Yours ever, Judy
PS.
Here is my physiology exam.
Do you think you could have passed?
LOCK WILLOW FARM, Saturday night
Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,
I've only just come and I'm not unpacked, but I can't wait to tell you how much I like farms.
This is a heavenly, heavenly, HEAVENLY spot!
The house is square like this: And OLD.
A hundred years or so.
It has a veranda on the side which I can't draw and a sweet porch in front.
The picture really doesn't do it justice—those things that look like feather dusters are maple trees, and the prickly ones that border the drive are murmuring pines and hemlocks.
It stands on the top of a hill and looks way off over miles of green meadows to another line of hills.
That is the way Connecticut goes, in a series of Marcelle waves; and Lock Willow Farm is just on the crest of one wave.
The barns used to be across the road where they obstructed the view, but a kind flash of lightning came from heaven and burnt them down.
The people are Mr. and Mrs. Semple and a hired girl and two hired men.
The hired people eat in the kitchen, and the Semples and Judy in the dining-room.
We had ham and eggs and biscuits and honey and jelly-cake and pie and pickles and cheese and tea for supper—and a great deal of conversation.
I have never been so entertaining in my life; everything I say appears to be funny.
I suppose it is, because I've never been in the country before, and my questions are backed by an all-inclusive ignorance.
The room marked with a cross is not where the murder was committed, but the one that I occupy.
It's big and square and empty, with adorable old-fashioned furniture and windows that have to be propped up on sticks and green shades trimmed with gold that fall down if you touch them.
And a big square mahogany table—I'm going to spend the summer with my elbows spread out on it, writing a novel.
Oh, Daddy, I'm so excited!
I can't wait till daylight to explore.
It's 8.30 now, and I am about to blow out my candle and try to go to sleep.
We rise at five.
Did you ever know such fun?
I can't believe this is really Judy.
You and the Good Lord give me more than I deserve.
I must be a very, very, VERY good person to pay.
I'm going to be.
You'll see.
Good night, Judy
PS.
You should hear the frogs sing and the little pigs squeal and you should see the new moon!
I saw it over my right shoulder.
LOCK WILLOW, 12th July
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
How did your secretary come to know about Lock Willow? (That isn't a rhetorical question.
I am awfully curious to know.) For listen to this: Mr. Jervis Pendleton used to own this farm, but now he has given it to Mrs. Semple who was his old nurse.
Did you ever hear of such a funny coincidence?
She still calls him 'Master Jervie' and talks about what a sweet little boy he used to be.
She has one of his baby curls put away in a box, and it is red—or at least reddish!
Since she discovered that I know him, I have risen very much in her opinion.