This time my mouth shut itself up, and no mortal force could open it. I stopped crying, and sat with folded arms. Mother said what she had to say, and then I came to you, my dear old Journal. Yes, he likes me and I like him. Come now, let's out with it once for all. He loves me and I love him. You are just a little bit too late, mother. Oct 1.-I never can write down all the things that have happened. The very day after I wrote that mother had forbidden my going to the class, Charley came to see her, and they had a regular fight together. He has told me about it since. Then, as he could not prevail, his uncle wrote, told her it would be the making of Charley to be settled down on one young lady instead of hovering from flower to flower, as he was doing now. Then Jenny came with her pretty ways, and cried, and told mother what a darling brother Charley was. She made a good deal, too, out of his having lost both father and mother, and needing my affection so much. Mother shut herself up, and I have no doubt prayed over it. I really believe she prays over every new dress she buys. Then she sent for me and talked beautifully, and I behaved abominably. At last she said she would put us on one year's probation. Charley might spend one evening here every two weeks, when she should always be present. We were never to be seen together in public, nor would she allow us to correspond. If, at the end of the year, we were both as eager for it as we are now, she would consent to our engagement. Of course we shall be, so I consider myself as good as engaged now. Dear me! how funny it seems. Oct 2.-Charley is not at all pleased with mother's terms, but no one would guess it from his manner to her. His coming is always the signal for her trotting down stairs; he goes to meet her and offers her a chair, as if he was delighted to see her. We go on with the lessons, as this gives us a chance to sit pretty close together, and when I am writing my exercises and he corrects them, I rather think a few little things get on to the paper that sound nicely to us, but would not strike mother very agreeably. For instance, last night Charley wrote: "Is your mother never sick? A nice little headache or two would be so convenient to us!" And I wrote back. "You dear old horrid thing. How can you be so selfish?" Jan. 15, 1833.-I have been trying to think whether I am any happier to-day than I was at this time a year ago. If I am not, I suppose it is the tantalizing way in which I am placed in regard to Charley. We have so much to say to each other that we can't say before mother, and that we cannot say in writing, because a correspondence is one of the forbidden things. He says he entered into no contract not to write, and keeps slipping little notes into my hand; but I don't think that quite right. Mother hears us arguing and disputing about it, though she does not know the subject under discussion, and to-day she said to me: