_Tuesday, Oct._—A fortnight has dragged on—ah! yes: how truly is it described when I say _dragged_ since _his_ departure, and I wonder to myself how was it possible that I ever should endure this place without him—my sunlight!—my joy! In one of the literary papers which my uncle takes is a notice of premiums, to be awarded to the successful competitors, for tales, essays, etc. I have determined to become one. I have often written—may I not succeed? I _will_ succeed. I have a good plan, too, for a story, founded upon an incident in the life of my old hero-like grandfather. So, adieu my old friend, my journal, for awhile; for I must bend all my existent energies on my _prize_ story—as I _will_ it to be. In doing that and answering Hugh’s letters, the time at my disposal will be entirely taken up. The prizes will be awarded before Christmas. I am beginning to think Mrs. Dudley and Clare suspect my engagement to Hugh. _November 28th._—Joy! joy! and now for the details—to confide to you, my journal, in what that joy consists! My uncle opened the mail-bag, as usual, this morning whilst we sat at breakfast. There were two gentlemen present, beside our family circle, and one of them, a wealthy gentleman from a neighboring city, and who has always shown himself peculiarly polite and attentive, at the same time an interesting and intellectual companion. Mrs. Dudley and Clare—I forever _couple_ them together, for it seems to me they have only _one_ mind for their two bodies, and of course, but a small portion for each—imagine I am “setting my cap” for him; and according to their general custom, endeavor to set me in the worst possible light in his eyes. Well! _revenons à nos moutons_, my uncle placed two letters before me as my share of the precious bag, remarking as he did so: “One from your punctual correspondent at the South, and one from Philadelphia. What beau in that city, Floy, do you write to?” “Why, Miss Walton”—in a most insulting tone, said Mrs. Dudley—“is not this foolish correspondence with my nephew dropped by _him_ yet? If it were not for its improbability, I should begin to fear there was something serious in it; but, then your encouragement of his attentions was so very open, that Clare and I said it could only have been for your amusement and his, to make the time pass to two idlers. But, once for all, pray inform me as _his_ aunt, did you ever dream of any reality in your game?” How the hot blood rushed to my temples as I convulsively grasped the letters to place in my pocket. Yet my pride came to the rescue at this wanton insult, and at which her assistant in her schemes, Clare, sat smiling, triumphantly rejoicing in this vulgar attack—so turning to her, with a light laugh of scorn, I replied: “_Your nephew!_ Humph! Yes; your supposition does credit to your _ever_ rightly judging and far-seeing mind. My flirtation with _your kinsman_ could, of course, be only for one’s amusement in the country!”