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18 March 1922
My darling Father,
I can't express to you my feelings when I read your letter. How you can possibly find it in your heart to write like that to your undeserving little black sheep of a child only God knows. It wrings my heart to think of my ungrateful behaviour and I cannot understand how I have been the victim of my fearfulness and dread of misunderstanding. You have been - you are - the soul of generosity to us all. Then how - loving you as I do - feeling your sensitiveness and sympathy as I do - can I have made you suffer? It is a mystery. I sometimes wish that we could have been nearer to each other since I have been grown up and not the intolerant girl who returned to New Zealand with you years ago. But fate has willed otherwise.
Believe me, I am not, and never shall be, unmindful of what it must have cost you to write that letter to me. Perhaps one day I shall be able to express my gratitude and love.
My darling, it is such a joy to think we may meet this year. My letters from the girls at Wood Hay are full of your coming and the preparations for it. Everything they do seems to have the same end - Chaddie's last batch of marmalade. And they seem to have done wonders with their garden.
My plans for the immediate future are very uncertain. I knew that in spite of the considered opinion of the Swiss doctors, Montana was too high for my heart. My lungs appeared to improve, but my heart got so much worse that I could do nothing whatever except lie in a chaise longue. [To Harold Beauchamp, 18 March 1922.]