It is perfect here: if only you were with us I would be the happiest girl in the world. Peter is all better again. I hope I shall never live through another night like the one when we nearly lost him. Bill is wonderful with children--I never saw such patience and tenderness and sanity. We see quite a lot of Mercedes. I am sure she would enchant you, she is so pretty. But I should be jealous, you know, if she ever adopted you as a second father, as she threatened to do when I showed her your picture. Your picture, by the way, is the next thing to the flesh and blood you! I talk to it by the hour. Bill has confessed the Richard Warren hoax! Quite involuntarily. I must admit surprise, but of course I am terrifically proud of him. And you knew all along, you wretch, and never told me! 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 MAVIS. SUNSET LAKE, SOMEWHERE IN CANADA 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.