I had paid her back, certainly, for the poor, wicked old creature’s face colored up in anger as she said: “Oh! very well, very well, indeed, Miss Walton. That is a nice speech for a coquette to make about an absent gentleman in the presence of another.” I made _her_ no further answer, but finishing my coffee, left the room to read my letters. I could not help making this answer to her at the time; yet, I sincerely regret it now. It seems like treason against my love to utter such a thing about _him_, even to retaliate upon her. The first letter I opened was from Hugh Dudley—breathing the most devoted love—begging me to shorten his term of exile, and let him come, at once, to claim me for his own. The other was from the editor of the ——, and contained a check for one hundred dollars! My story had obtained the second prize. Now, I _can_ think about what Hugh has written, I will write to him to-morrow, and tell him I will consider his proposition. I must not grant it at once, for I am ashamed to let him see how much I love him. _December 18th._—How busy they are preparing for Christmas; yet I cannot enter into their feelings of mirth. A presentiment is haunting me—a shadow, like the gloom of the grave, is around me. I cannot answer why this is so. Foolish that I am! I have gone forth to my favorite walk; I have recalled the words—the vows of love—his tender looks, as he offered them; and yet the cold, dead feeling at my heart will not be driven forth. As I entered the parlor yesterday, in the dim twilight, softly—for I was thinking sadly, as I am wont _now_—I heard Mrs. Dudley say to Clare, “_Depend on it, Hugh Dudley will not marry_ HER _at least_.” I do not think she saw me; but Clare’s cold eyes rested on me with a most malignant glance, as I quickly drew back, ere they should be aware of my entrance. I know, oh, heart of mine! how foolish ’tis for me to grieve. Is this the confidence I have in his love—his vows—his honor—to be thus shaken for _one_ moment by the assertions of an evil-minded and plotting old woman, who manifestly hates me. I _will_ tear this feeling from me. I will not despond—I will trust in you, my own noble-hearted Hugh.